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GATHERED FROM THE POEMS 



OF THE LATB 



REV. JOHN EAGLES, M.A., 



HIS OLD FRIEND, 



JOHN MATHEW GUTCH 



GATHER YE ROSE-BUDS WHILE YE MAY, 

OLD TIME IS STILL A-FLYING J 
AND THIS SAME FLOW'R THAT SMILES TO-DAY, 

TO-MORROW WILL BE DYING. 

Herrick's Hesperides. 



--'. 






FIFTY COPIES PRINTED FOR PRIVATE DISTRIBUTION. 

205449 

WORCESTER. 

MDCCCLVII. 



FEINTED BY PAEEY AND CO.. JOUENAL OFFICE. 



/£ ^0 



TO 

ZOE KING, 

THE DEVOTED FRIEND OF THE LATE 

KEV. JOHN EAGLES, 
Wc)\% tolantf 

IS DEDICATED WITH MUCH RESPECT, 

THO' WITHOUT PERMISSION, 
BY 

THE EDITOR, 

WHO HAS LEARNT TO APPRECIATE 
HER MANY VIRTUES. 



Common Hill, 
May Day, 1857. 



PREFACE. 



It is one of the most gratifying occurrences in life 
to be enabled to bear testimony to the virtues and 
intellectual endowments of a departed friend. Such a 
friena was the late Eev. John Eagles, with whom the 
Editor of this Grarland continued in personal intimacy 
and correspondence upwards of thirty years. 

As an elegant and entertaining prose writer, Mr. 
Eagles obtained the concurrent approbation of every 
critic, and they were many, who noticed in various 
reviews a series of essays written by him, which origi- 
nally appeared in "Blackwood's Magazine," under the 
title of " The Sketchee ;" and which the Messrs. Black- 
wood have recently republished in an entire volume. 

It has been thought not undeserving of his fame and 
character to select from the pages of "The Sketcher," 
and from other sources, specimens of his poetry, which, 
had they been published by himself in a collected form, 
must have placed him amongst the sweetest and most 
distinguished lyrical poets of the present day. Nor 
would his genius have been lessened in comparison with 
those poets of a similar character in the olden times, 
especially with such as relate to fairy mythology, 
abounding as Mr. Eagles's do in fertility of invention, 
richness of imagination, and variety of versification, such 



VI PREFACE. 

as are to be found in Shakespere's Midsummer Night's 
Dream, Drayton's Nymphidia, and Herrick's Hesperides. 
Mr. Eagles's poetical fancy, it may be said, luxuriated 
among fairies, their haunts, their habits, their machinery, 
and their gambols. It would seem that his day dreams, 
and his night dreams, must haye frequently been in 
fairy land, and of fairy lore. In order to a proper 
appreciation of these lyrical selections from "The 
Sketcher," some preliminary remarks and dialogues are 
given, which will rather add to than detract from their 
beauty. 

Mr. Eagles, like many of our most eminent poets, fre- 
quently threw off his thoughts in the nature of a Sonnet, 
like Milton, Jonson, Drummond, among our early ones ; 
and Bowles, Coleridge and Wordsworth, among the 
moderns. Coleridge acknowledges in his "Biographia 
Literaria" that it was Bowles's sonnets which first 
inspired his muse. Several of Mr. Eagles's sonnets 
will find a place in this Garland, some of which ha\e 
been pronounced models in this species of poetry. 

But many of Mr. Eagles's friends and admirers think 
his chief excellence in poetry appeared in his translations 
from the classics, establishing his thorough acquaintance 
with and mastery over their language, and his discern- 
ment and ability to convey their meaning in their true 
signification and character. To the translator, who is 
himself a poet, and no other ought to attempt a trans- 
lation, two modes suggest themselves of performing the 
task. The one, of adhering closely to the language of 
the original, and thus presenting a faithful, but a faded 
copy of its various merits. The translator, after this 
plan, transfers sentence after sentence, image after image, 



PREFACE. VU 

exactly as he is able, in the manner, style, and order of 
his author. He gives all the meaning of the Greek and 
Roman ; but does he give all the soul and mind ? The 
othee undertakes a bolder task, that of endeavouring, 
with the materials of the original, to build a poem, which 
shall leave upon the mind of his countrymen a similar 
and equal effect with that which the original produced 
upon its natural auditors. The common obstacle, which 
lies in the way of a good translation, is the rare chance 
of meeting with an individual with a similar turn of mind 
to that of the original author ; with taste and genius to 
relish his beauties, — and with industry and skill to 
complete with success a just transfer of his excellences. 
Many thoughts, perhaps mere phrases, that fell upon 
the ear of a Greek or Homan with a spell and a power, 
have lost all their charm upon a modern listener or hearer. 
Now the Editor of this volume does not hesitate to 
assert, and he thinks he shall be borne out in the opinion 
of others, that Mr. Eagles did possess all these qualifi- 
cations in a superior degree, and that all his translations 
have caught the spirit of the original. His mind was 
peculiarly adapted for the translation of the thoughts 
of others and for the conveyance of his own original ones. 
Although these qualifications of the translator may not 
be so apparent in the Odes of Horace, yet when a volume 
appears, which it is confidently expected will speedily be 
published of Mr. Eagles's translation of the Hymns of 
Homer, from "Blackwood's Magazine," and from his 
unpublished MSS. of the first and second Books of the 
Odyssey, and five cantos of the Orlando Furioso of 
Ariosto, this meed of praise will generally be ascribed 
to him. 



Vlll PREFACE. 

But further, Mr. Eagles possessed another qualifi- 
cation which singularly fitted him for poetical composition. 
He was a painter, and on his canvas displayed the various 
branches of nature in their full luxuriance ; landscape 
scenery, with its varieties of tree, shrub, flower, and water. 
Yet with this combination of genius, and versatility of 
talent, such was the humility of his nature, that he was 
peculiarly averse from obtruding himself before the public 
eye. It is therefore, now that he is no more, the duty 
of his friends to endeavour to do justice to his memory, 
and to perpetuate his virtues. Fortunately that task, or 
rather labour of love, has been performed by an abler hand 
than the Editor's, as will be seen in the character drawn 
of him immediately after his decease, and inserted 
elsewhere. 

But there is one which the Editor cannot refrain from 
giving, contained in a letter written to him by a devoted 
Friend of Mr. Eagles,* after he had read some reminis- 
cences by the Editor, sent to him by a mutual friend, 
" Of what a modest and refined nature was the mind of 
our friend. How good — how bland — how tolerant, in 
spite of strong opinions of his own ! How full of grace, 
and wit, and refined humour ! How thoroughly was he 
a gentleman in every sense of that word ! A Christian 
he would have been, I used to think, if Christ had never 
been born." 

His was the glowing heart, and sparkling mien ; 
To be beloved— he needed not be seen— 
And now he's resting in his lowly bed ; 
To be beloved — he needs but to be read ! 

/v / * John Ptenyon, Esq., " Philosopher, Philanthropist and Poet." 



CONTENTS. 



Preface. 

Reminiscences of Mr. Eagles. 

John Eagles, Poet and Painter, by F. K. 



Lyrics from the Sketcher 



The Fairy .... 

The Fairy's Reply 

Echo and Silence 

Merry we at the Greenwood Tree 

Oberon's King 

The Sweet Guitar 

Moonlight .... 

The Painter's Grave . 

O, lay me not by the clear Fountain's Brink 

O, who would sit in the Moonlight pale ? 

Upon a bedded bank 

Where flows the tranquil stream ? 

The Remonstrance 

There is folly in all the world 

O, ye are Fools that love to stand 

The Glee 

The Bower 

The Lyre 

The Good and Evil Spirits 

Woman's Tears 

The Faery Bank 

The Moonlight Invitation 

Oh, what is the time of the merry round year 

Old Will 



1 

5 

6 
9 
10 
12 
13 
16 
18 
20 
21 
23 
25 
27 
30 
31 
33 
34 
36 
39 
41 
42 
44 
46 



CONTENTS. 

Sonnets :— 

Sympathy 53 

Time and Oblivion 53 

The Poet's Address to the Statue of Hymen . . 54 

To Winter 55 

On a dull Spring 55 

The Glow-worm 56 

The Concert 56 

The Best Infant School 57 

Harmony 58 

Father and Son 58 

The Brook : The Waters of Consolation ... 59 

The Lover's Moonlight 60 

Midnight 60 

Infancy of Art 61 

The Picture 62 

To the Citizens of Bristol 62 

Sonnet to Courtney 63 

Faith and Love 64 

Liberty 64 

Music 65 

Consolation 66 

Death 66 

The Bird 67 

In Memoriam 68 

Home 68 

Questa Vita Mortal 69 

O Dolce selva ombrosa 70 

Morning 70 

A Day remembered 71 

Beauty - . 72 

Life 72 

Thoughts 73 

Chanticleer 74 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



Carmina Lusoria : — 

Sweet grew the Rose 

O, we will to the Woods again 

Nor Flower that's fairest 

O, What is Love 

Home 

Life 

Can I forget 

The Progress of Love 

Zephyrs . 

The Retreat 

Spring 

True Blue 

Madrigal . 

Prologue and Epilogue 

Chloe and Brush 

The Squirrel 

Themaninthemoon 

The Monopolist 

The Parent Oak 

Dear Chloe when you bid me write 



77 

78 

79 

80 

81 

83 

85 

87 

89 

91 

92 

93 

95 

95 

99 

100 

103 

105 

106 

110 



Translations from Vincent Bourne : — 



The Reconciling Beauty .... 
The School of Rhetoric .... 
On the Sepulchral Statue of a sleeping Child 
Ocean, the Plunderer, and the Restorer 

Strada's Nightingale 

It is best to know much and speak little 
Not what you seem 



115 
117 
118 
119 
121 
123 
124 



Horace in Bristol :— 

First Felix let your graphic pen 
To Felix Farley — an Invitation 
To the Mayor 
To Sir Richard Vaughan . 



127 
129 
130 
135 



Xll 



1 CONTENTS. 

To George Cumberland, Esq. 








136 


Sapphics addressed to Felix Farley 








139 


To St. Peter's Pamp 








141 


An Invitation ..... 








142 


To Richard Hart Davis, Esq. 








143 


To John King, Esq. 








147 


To Francis Gold, Esq. 








149 


To Rev. John Eden . 








150 


To my Cask of Cider 








151 


Courtney loquitur 








153 


Happy the man that's free from care 








156 


Muse, He, on whom thy gentle eye 








158 


Lov'd by the Muse, what care have I 






160 


I shall not rise on feeble wing 






161 


The Man whose heart is sound at core 






163 


What tho' thy Son, that wild Cantab 






164 


To the Ship that conveyed my friend Bodenham 




165 


What does the Poetaster ask of his Apollo ? 




168 


Go, Boy, and buy a penny Roll 




169 


I've built a Monument of Brass 




170 


Homer's Hymns : — 


The Poem of Pan 172 


The Ballad of Bacchus 176 


Chloris asleep .... 








181 



EEJEtATA. 

Page 27, Lyric 14, for "Where " read " There.' 3 
„ 68, In " Memoriae " read " Memorial." 
„ 124, Not, not you seem, dele not. 
„ 142, Mytelme read Mytelene. 



REMINISCENCES 



OF 



THE LATE REV. JOHN EAGLES 



The following Reminiscences of my late friend 
were published in "Felix Farley's Journal" in 1855 
and 1856, soon after his decease. Other notices had 
previously appeared from several of his friends, one of 
which, here inserted, was written by an acquaintance 
who knew him intimately, and who, as his medical 
adviser, attended him in his last illness. But his rela- 
tions, and one friend in particular, knowing my long 
intimacy with Mr, Eagles, urged me to use my pen 
in commemoration of his domestic virtues, and his 
singular attainments in poetry, the fine arts, and 
general literature. They have expressed themselves 
pleased with my attempts to delineate his character, 
and it is at their request that these Reminiscences 
are re-published. It is with some reluctance I have 
complied with their wishes, being fully aware of my 
inability to do justice to the talents of my friend. 



XIV REMINISCENCES. 

& i&emoir of tfje late &eb. ^o^n ®aglc*. 

We have sustained a very great loss in the death of the 
Rev. John Eagles. 

Born in Bristol in 1784, Mr. Eagles received his early 
education at Mr. Seyer's school. Between twelve and 
thirteen years of age he went to Winchester, and subse- 
quently entered Wadham College, Oxford, where he took 
his degree and entered the church. During twelve or 
fourteen years Mr. Eagles was curate of Halberton ; for 
the last five years of this time the Rev. Sidney Smith was 
his Rector. He afterwards removed to the Curacy of 
Winford, near this city ; but in 1841, relinquishing all 
regular duty, he returned to reside in his native place until 
his death, which occurred at his residence, at King's-parade, 
on the 9th Instant (Nov. 8, 1855.) 

The writer of this memoir has had the privilege of 
association with Mr. Eagles only during the last thirteen 
or fourteen years ; he is therefore unable to dwell as much 
as he would wish upon that earlier period of Mr. Eagles's 
life, which was principally occupied with clerical duties. It 
is well known, however, that his memory is yet held in 
great esteem by his parishioners, to whom he was endeared 
by the thoughtful kindliness and simplicity of his character. 
It is, then, to the latter period of his life that we must 
principally advert, but still it is no easy task to convey in a 
few brief words a mental portraiture, where the character- 
istics of no ordinary mind are to be pourtrayed. The 
incidents of a long literary life have to be touched upon 
with due emphasis ; and, while the recent loss is still deeply 
in the heart of the friend who attempts the sketch, it 
cannot be expected that the outline be delivered with a 
steady hand, much less that the details of the more finished 
picture should be adequately filled in. 



REMINISCENCES. XV 

John Eagles was a man of no common genius ; highly 
gifted with intellectual power, of great classical attainment, 
and happily placed in circumstances which permitted him to 
cultivate and carry out, with perfect independence of thought 
and feeling, his literary tastes, he leaves behind him valuable 
contributions to general literature. Mr. Eagles's writings, 
which are chiefly published in " Blackwood's Magazine," 
date back as far as 1831. From that time up to the last 
few months, he was the author of a series of admirable 
papers, mostly on subjects connected with fine art, together 
with essays, reviews, political articles, poetical contributions, 
either original or translations from Greek or Latin poets. 

Mr. Eagles's writings possess great freshness and vigour, 
with easy simplicity of style, and are evidently the result of 
no laborious effort. His ideas were rich, copious, and 
graceful : his wit brilliant, yet tempered : his appreciation 
of his subject clear and profound : his argument abundant. 
These qualities were combined in his compositions with a 
gentle but deep stream of poetry, ever sparkling in tender 
sunshine. Mr. Eagles had great facility in writing. 
His " Lynmouth revisited," published a few years since, is 
a delightful specimen of the poetical freshness of the 
author's style. This charming and philosophical paper, 
composed in three or four hours, was supplementary to his 
" Sketcher," a beautiful series of Essays which appeared in 
" Blackwood " in 1833-4-5. He has furnished upwards of 
sixty other contributions devoted to subjects of the highest 
artistic interest, which are published in the same 
Magazine. In a brief notice of this kind it is impossible 
to enter with any detail upon Mr. Eagles's literary labours. 
His latest published paper, now doubly interesting to us, 
was a review of Charles Knight's " Once upon a Time." 
The last work he was engaged upon was a review of the 
memoirs of Sidney Smith ; interrupted by fatal illness, it 
remains unfinished. 



REMINISCENCES. 



Mr. Eagles's poetical compositions may, perhaps, be 
ranked amongst the highest of his efforts. Deep thought 
and feeling, perfect truth in natural description, melodious 
versification, grace and playfulness, characterize his poetry. 
His Sonnets, which are very numerous, are equal to any 
in the English language. His sounding and rythmical 
translations of the Greek Poets are thoroughly imbued 
with the true Grecian spirit : indeed, throughout the whole 
of Mr. Eagles's writings, as well as in the productions of 
his pencil, of which we are about to speak, there breathes 
a classical chasteness that gives them a special charm. 

The same genius which led him to poetical composition, 
developed itself in another form of imaginative power, 
equally vigorous and masterly in its results — Mr. Eagles 
was a practical artist. Profoundly versed in the philosophy 
of art, and deeply filled with veneration for the works of 
the great masters, he loved the art for art's sake. An 
earnest follower of nature in all her varied moods ; the 
mountain and the rushing torrent, the gloomy ravine, the 
majestic lines of the heaving sea, or the gentler themes of 
sunny slopes and graceful trees, were rendered by his hand 
with unusual truth and power. His paintings, resulting 
from observation and close study of nature, from great 
classical knowledge and cultivated taste, possess a very 
dignified and noble character as works of art. 

Surrounded by the creations of his pencil, and earnest 
in the pursuit of an art which his high genius and powerful 
nervous organisation permitted him to carry out with 
untiring energy, Mr. Eagles entered seldom of late 
years into general society, but his studio was always open 
to his friends, and he was ever ready to impart valuable 
intormation to all who sought it from him, and to appreciate 
excellence in others. 

As a sketcher from nature, Mr. Eagles possessed very 
remarkable power ; rapid and vigorous in his delineation, 



REMINISCENCES. XV11 

gifted with, a peculiar faculty of seeing and selecting the finest 
subjects for the pencil, his sketches are wonderful for truth, 
grandeur, and excellence of line. He has left behind him 
a collection of sketches precious indeed to all true lovers of 
art. JNo man felt more deeply the charm of our local 
scenery. He was a true English painter, and the writer of 
this memoir has often heard him remark that our own 
varying skies, green English vallies, deep woods and 
streams, can furnish all that the landscape painter need 
require. Those who had the privilege of his companionship 
in his sketching expeditions will long remember his valuable 
suggestions and the charm of his varied conversation. 

Some years ago, Mr. Eagles wrote an essay upon 
funerals, strongly condemnatory of the pride and vanity of 
the " Trade of Woe." The following quotation from this 
paper forcibly expresses his feeling on the subject : — " It is 
very evident that costly funerals have not for their first 
object respect for the dead, the pride of the living is more 
conspicuous in them. If, however, they were a solemn 
lesson to all men ; if they were a public proclamation of 
death, a warning that all should take heed to their ways, it 
would be well. The burial service is so, but it is precisely 
where the undertaker's work of parade commences, that 
there is an interruption of the solemnity, which is not 
taken up again until the last deposit in the earth, when 
the friend and the relative steal forward and drop their 
tears into the grave, and the men of business keep in the 
back-ground." Maintaining his unostentatious consistency 
to the last, Mr. Eagles left a particular direction that his 
funeral should be conducted in the simplest manner. In 
accordance with this desire his remains have been borne to 
the neighbouring churchyard without carriages, or hearse, 
simply followed by his kindred and his friends, among whom 
were gathered many of our clergy and all our resident 
artists anxious to pay their tribute of respect to his genius 
and his worth. 



XV111 



REMINISCENCES. 



An intimate association with Mr. Eagles for some years 
may authorise ns to speak of him as a departed friend. He 
was warm and sincere in his personal attachments, and ever 
ready to obey the call of any friend who required his 
religious aid and consolation. Though retiring and sensitive 
in his habits, he exercised an extensive hospitality, and 
delighted to draw around him those who could share with 
the pursuits and mental enjoyments he loved so well. His 
was indeed a green old age, and Time, which had left his 
mind untouched, had, until quite lately, laid his hand but 
very gently upon his bodily powers. 

In the fall vigour, then, of his intellect, though in the 
ripe autumn time, has he passed away. Happily the sunset 
of his life was not obscured by very long or painful 
illness. Strongly impressed with the mortal nature of his 
complaint, he regarded the termination with fortitude, 
resignation, and deep religious trust. Perhaps the feeling 
with which he contemplated the approach of death may be 
best expressed by this most beautiful sonnet, composed by 
him only a few months before his decease :— 



The Earth bears fruit in Life, and fruit in Death— 
A living world— a vast necropolis- 
Old fabled grounds of Jupiter and Dis : 

Humanity the root, which buddeth breath 

Whose beauty in pure spirit vanisheth, 
And passeth in that change to higher bliss— 
The ripe tree drops its seed, which Death's Abyss 

Taketh, and for new Spring time nourisheth— 

There is a common Citizenship between 
The dead and living— what they had, we have 

In this our hand-built City ; in that unseen, 
Not made with hands, still live the good and brave. 

There is no Death— we do but shift the scene, 
To take up our new Freedom in the grave. 

Bristol Times and Felix Farley s Journal. 
November, 1855. 



REMINISCENCES. XIX 

& ifamtntecencs of t|)e Jfob. 3)oJn <&a%U$* 

TO THE EDITOR OF FELIX FAELEY'S JOURNAL. 

Sib, — The memoir of the Rev. John Eagles, which you 
lately published, contains such a true and full account of his 
character and various attainments, that it would, I am sure, 
be painful to his relations and friends, if I attempted to add 
further eulogium to what has already been so well done. It 
was my privilege to have known him intimately, and to have 
enjoyed his correspondence for many years, before, perhaps, 
the writer of the memoir was born. The last tribute which 
I can pay to his memory will be, if you permit, to send for 
insertion in your journal, a few reminiscences of him, 
suggested by his correspondence, and my oral communi- 
cations with him, the recollection of which will endear his 
memory to me for the few remaining years I have to live. 

I would first allude to a faculty he possessed, which is 
not noticed in the memoir, that of a most retentive memory, 
not only of what he had treasured up from his knowledge 
of the ancient classical poets and historians, but from 
writers of his own and foreign languages, quotations from 
which he so happily appropriated in almost every page of 
his varied contributions to " Blackwood's Magazine." 

When visiting him at Halberton, during his curacy there, 
he drove me one splendid, sunshiny morning, through some 
beautiful Devonshire scenery to Tiverton. The scenery 
gave rise to a conversation upon Devonshire superstitions, 
among which mention was made of the belief of the lower 
classes in the existence of Pixies. This led to a notice of 
Coleridge's " Songs of the Pixies." Among many other 
pieces of his recent composition, my friend recited to me the 
Address to the Fairies,* in his sweet mellow voice, continuing 

* Vide page 2 in this Garland. 



XX REMINISCENCES. 

a series of poetical scraps during the whole of the ride. He 
afterwards sent it to me in manuscript for insertion in Felix 
Farley. The varied beauties of this poem have not been, I 
think, duly known and appreciated, from their having only- 
appeared in the fleeting pages of a newspaper ; but they are 
well worthy of republication. I do not mean to assert that 
such fairy machinery and imagery are equal to the con- 
ception of Shakespere, as delineated in the characters of 
Oberon, Titania, and Puck, in the Midsummer Night's 
Dream, but they will not suffer in a comparison therewith. 
If I am guilty of presumption in so doing, I cannot be 
accused thereof in comparing my friend's poetic fancies with 
the details of imagery so profusely dispersed through 
Herrick's Hesperides, delineating the habits of fairies, elves, 
and other aerial spirits. If I dare not to compare them 
with Milton's imaginative beings in Comus, I cannot refrain 
from trusting that the soul of my departed friend may, like 
Milton's Lycidas, be translated into the realms of bliss in 
strains like these — 

" Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, 
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; 
So sinks the day star in the watery bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky ; — 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves, 
Where other groves and other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the saints above, 
In solemn troops and sweet societies, 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes." 

An Octogenarian. 
Worcester, November, 1855. 






REMINISCENCES. XXI 

&notf)er Memmtecence of tjj« &eb. 3Jolm €£agle&. 

TO THE EDITOR OF FELIX FAELEY'S JOUENAL. 

Sib, — It may be asked why, after the decease of my 
reverend friend, who never published in his life-time any 
popular standard work, and whose name was never promi- 
nently before the public eye, so many of his contemporaries 
should be anxious to bear testimony to his virtues and 
superior talents. The truth is, that no man ever sought 
publicity less than he did, though no one could more have 
commanded applause, had he pleased to have blazoned his 
name in a title-page, or have coveted the appellation of an 
academician. He felt not 

" That last infirmity of noble minds, 
The spur of fame." 

Enough may have, perhaps, already been related of Mr. 
Eagles's social character and the amenities of his compara- 
tively secluded life, without further disclosing those excel- 
lencies, which private friendship and acquaintance would 
alike forbid. 

Nevertheless, there is one of his many virtues to which 
I must particularly advert ; the happiness he felt, and the 
playfully affectionate ways he displayed with his children, 
with his daughters especially, whom he made his com- 
panions, and treated, from the earliest age, with a deference 
very striking to those who were intimate enough to know 
and appreciate the strong family affection which existed 
between them. When his daughters married, much as he 
regretted the loss of their daily intercourse, their husbands 
became sons (in the true sense of the word) to him. This 
happiness, I am informed, he spoke of with gratitude, and 
loved to dwell upon to the latest days of his life. 

My present reminiscence will, therefore, be chiefly con- 
fined to his pursuits and attainments in elegant literature, 
and his knowledge and appreciation of the fine arts ; for an 



XX11 REMINISCENCES. 

acquaintance with these, I can refer only to his anonymous 
writings in the pages of a periodical publication. But 
although his varied essays in " Blackwood's Magazine" were 
easily recognised by his friends from their singular sweetness 
and tone of composition, his versatility of subject and 
thought, and by his innocent and sparkling wit, I shall 
merely allude to those entitled " The Sketcher." They 
appeared in that Magazine in 1833-4-5, and were recom- 
menced a few years since, under the title of " Lynmouth 
Hevisited." 

In these essays, Mr. Eagles has, with admirable skill, 
contrived, by imaginary interlocutors, to give his opinion 
upon sketching, painting, and almost every subject con- 
nected with the fine arts, and he has interspersed them with 
snatches of song and sweet poesy, which have given to them 
that human energy which influences the minds of men 
owning that poetical faculty, and which contains within 
itself the best security that it will be nobly and beneficially 
employed. Bestowed, doubtless, like many similar gifts, 
not as a plaything or ornament — not as a snare or seduc- 
tion — but as an instrument for purifying and ennobling 
our spiritual being, distinguished from other powers by a 
peculiar incapability of being diverted from its proper end, 
or degraded to an unworthy motive. Grenius or talent in 
other shapes may but imperfectly reach the deeper sensi- 
bilities of the heart and conscience, or may with comparative 
indifference be exerted for good or woe, for happiness or 
misery. These were my friend's exalted opinions of the 
value and uses of poetry, and, I believe, I am accurately 
quoting the sentiments which he conveyed to me many 
years ago in a literary correspondence. 

The scenery described in " The Sketcher" is taken from 
those beautiful and romantic walks along the banks of the 
Linn, leading to Lynmouth, in Devonshire, by that sweet 
spot where " Waters-meet," and to that snug inn of retreat.. 



REMINISCENCES. XX111 

at the hamlet of Lynmouth, up to the high castellated rocks 
of Linton, to " The Valley of Bocks," and to the interesting 
scenery in the domain of Mr. Herries. In " The Sketcher" 
also, Mr. Eagles has described the scenery of St. Vincent's 
Kocks and Nightingale Valley, leading to those precipitous 
crags in Leigh Woods, thro' the Roman encampment, 
where, with a pic-nic party of gentlemen and ladies, Mr. 
Eagles was wont to spend many a happy hour in joke, song, 
and the sweet music of the guitar, the remembrance of 
which makes my old'blood warm again. 

The Messrs. Blackwood have long promised to collect 
these Essays and publish them ; indeed they were recently 
announced to be in the press. When will they announce 
them in their advertising sheet, as " Now Ready," and 
abate the anxious expectations of the friends of the deceased, 
and of every one who appreciates their varied beauties ? 
[The volume is now published.] But I will not anticipate 
the contents of Blackwood's promised volume, contenting 
myself with quoting Mr. Eagles's reply to the lyric of "Eairy, 
where dost dwell." (Vide page 5 of this "Garland.") 
" Poetry and painting," said Mr. Eagles, " are Sister Arts 
— feminine they walk the woods and wilds, defenceless and 
fearless in spell and power of their beauty, loveliness, and 
gentleness. Add music, and they are the three Graces, and 
it will readily be admitted there is one spirit of inspiration 
in all." 

I am not sufficiently acquainted with the principles of 
landscape painting, the favourite pursuit of my friend, to 
criticise his productions, but those better able tell me, not 
only that in " The Sketcher " and other articles of his 
writing, he has propounded those principles which gained 
him the approbation of eminent painters now living, but 
that they derived instruction and suggestions from him, 
which have raised many to their present high eminence. 
The landscapes -of Gaspar Poussin were his idols I may 



XXIV 



REMINISCENCES. 



say, several of which he was allowed to copy from those 
in the collection of Mr. Miles, at Leigh Court ; and there 
is one opinion recently sent me of a popular landscape 
painter, who commenced his career in Bristol, and has since 
risen to high fame in his profession, in which he says, after 
lamenting Mr. Eagles's decease, and doing justice to his 
genius, "that if his favourite, G-aspar Poussin, had never 
lived, he believes that he would have been very nearly what 
he was, if he had never seen a Gaspar." There are other 
judges of landscape painting who prefer Mr. Eagles's 
Sketches to his more finished paintings, one of whom 
writes to me as follows : — " In matters of art, I think his 
sketches far superior to his pictures. When I first became 
acquainted with him, about fourteen years ago, he took 
very little care of them. I have seen him throw them in 
great confusion on a sofa, and, when tired, himself lie down 
on the top of them. His later sketches were taken more 
care of, and, perhaps, were superior to the early ones ; and 
he had acquired a greater boldness and force in his execu- 
tion. I think his representation of running water better 
than that of any one I know. It is Dr. Johnson who says 
" a person need not be slow in writing in order to write 
well, it is all habit." Mr. Eagles was strongly of this opinion, 
and was rapid in drawing as well as writing, and to this he 
added great perseverance ; he would sit up all night to 
finish what he had begun, rather than leave it incomplete. 
He was, as you say, no ordinary character. I think that a 
great deal of the imaginative paintings of * * # had 
their origin in ideas thrown out by Mr. Eagles's pictures ; 
for, although he had not the leisure nor the artistic educa- 
tion sufficient to do justice to the conceptions of his own 
mind, yet these conceptions were most highly picturesque 
and poetical." 

I have only spoken of Mr. Eagles's attainments as a 
landscape painter and sketcher. He excelled, also, in the 



REMINISCENCES. XXV 

art of etching, in proof of which I will refer to six of his 
etchings of Gaspar Poussin's pictures, which he published 
in Bristol, in 1823. Whether any copies are remaining I 
know not ; I feel happy in having one given me by him. 

Whether any likenesses were ever taken of him besides 
that in crayons by the elder Branwhite, I am ignorant. 
Mr. Branwhite made me a duplicate : Mr. Eagles is standing 
before his easel, with his pallet and brush in hand, painting 
a landscape, in the attitude in which I have seen him 
painting when admitted to his studio ; but, unfortunately, 
it is only a side likeness, and does not exhibit those expressive 
features which illuminated his countenance when, turning 
round his head, he expressed the pleasure he felt in having 
dashed in a cloud, extended a rivulet, or put in a gnarled 
branch of a tree. His countenance is constantly before me, 
as the picture is hung upon my wall, among many other 
" old familiar faces." [A portrait of him, a striking likeness, 
has been painted by Curnock.] 

I am reminded by a correspondent that the ancestors 
of Mr. Eagles were all literary men, and devoted admirers 
of Shakespere. "I am surprised," he says, "that no one 
has mentioned their impassionate love of Shakspere. I 
can witness that it lasted through three generations ; for I 
remember at the last anniversary of my (also Mr. Eagles's) 
grandfather's birthday, he was then 96, the old gentleman 
repeated to us many passages of Shakespere with great 
fluency and lively recollection." 

In writing this reminiscence, I am glad I have had it in 
my power to quote the opinions of several of Mr. Eagles's 
friends, exonerating me from what otherwise might have been 
considered the partiality of one friend to the high character 
he entertained of another. 

An Octogenarian. 
Worcester, 14th January, 1856. 

\ 



XXVI 



REMINISCENCES. 



&emmtecenc*g of t£e &tb. 3Jofm 3Hagle£, anti of i)te 
dfatljer, ©fjomag (Ragles, 1Egq. 

TO THE EDITOR OF FELIX FARLEY'S JOURNAL. 

Sie, — I have not observed in any of the testimonies to 
the memory of my late friend, that mention has been made 
of his father. Perhaps there are none, or very few, of his 
acqaintance still living, who could furnish any reminiscences 
of him. He was the descendant of an ancient family, well 
connected, and possessed of landed property in Monmouth- 
shire. He married Miss Charlotte Tyndale, of the Tyndale 
family, descended from the Bampfyldes and Warres. Her 
brother was heir to his uncle, Colonel Bampfylde, and had 
the Hestercombe property, taking the name of Warre. 
When Mr. Eagles settled in Bristol, he engaged in com- 
mercial pursuits, and before his decease was appointed 
Collector of the Customs of that port. Notwithstanding 
his engagements in commerce, he found ample time to 
pursue his literary occupations. Being possessed of high 
classical attainments, he became intimate with the most 
eminent literary men of the city and its neighbourhood, 
amongst whom were the Rev. Samuel Seyer, the Eev. John 
Eden, Dr. JNTott, Mr. Charles Joseph Harford, and other 
learned cotemporaries. 

It was in 1807 that I first became acquainted with him ; 
when he inquired of me the probable success of a series of 
essays he proposed to commence, similar to those in the 
" Spectator," " Tatler," &c. Mr. Eagles had previously 
been the chief contributor to a periodical of the same nature, 
published in " Felix Farley," called the " Crier," which had 
obtained much celebrity. I have in my possession, in his 
handwriting, the first number with which he intended to 
commence the new work, which was to be called the 
" Ghost," and which may perhaps gome day make its 
appearance in your columns. But I find in my portfolio a 



REMINISCENCES. XXV11 

letter from an old contributor to " Felix Farley," which 
contains so just a character of the " Crier " and of Mr. 
Eagles's father, that I think neither his family nor your 
readers will be displeased with the following extract : — 

I recollect the infinite pleasure I formerly received from the 
perusal of a periodical paper, which appeared in the " Journal," 
under the title of the " Crier." It first came out, I remember, in 
the year 1785, nearly about the same time that the " Lounger" was 
publishing at Edinburgh, and it was, I believe, the first attempt 
ever made in a provincial town to support a periodical essay. The 
success it met with, if not equal to what might have been wished, 
was perhaps greater than could reasonably have been expected when 
we consider how few, amidst the daily concerns of commerce, can 
find time for the pursuits of literature, and that of those gifted 
persons, a very small number are in the habit of committing their 
thoughts to paper. There is often, too, in such men a natural 
diffidence — a certain shy reserve, which forbids them to display 
their attainments before the vulgar gaze of the crowd. 

The discontinuance of this essay, from whatever cause, took 
away one of the greatest attractions the "Journal " then possessed 
for me. T used on receiving it wet from the press to direct my 
first regards to the fourth page, and if the " Crier" did not meet 
my eye, I felt something of chagrin — something of the disappoint- 
ment we experience in not meeting a pleasant companion whom we 
expected. I happened to be absent from Bristol when the " Crier," 
after a lapse of nearly fifteen years, again made his appearance in 
public. Immediately on hearing of it, I had the "Journal" for- 
warded to me, and read its numbers with undiminished entertain- 
ment and delight. Its sudden termination in 1802 led me to fear 
that the ingenious pen of the writer had been stopped by the icy 
hand of death, and that the " Crier," like his predecessor, had 
quietly passed 

"To that bourne from which no traveller returns." 

Having preserved the papers, I now read them with a kind of 
melancholy pleasure. The " Crier," methinks, is no more, and 
these are his last remains. 



XXV111 



REMINISCENCES. 



Although the grave shuts out the voice of praise as well as the 
whisper of calumny, I cannot forbear re-calling to its readers, who 
have counted as many years as myself, the merits of this our native 
essayist. And the disinterestedness of the applause may make those 
to whom his fame must be dear, ready to excuse the feebleness of 
the pen by which it is conveyed. If the " Crier" makes no claim 
to rival the incomparable " Spectator," in its delicate satire and 
exquisite traits of humour; if his papers possess not the sententious 
morality or penetration into human nature, which distinguish the 
" Rambler;" they yet display in no common degree the features of 
an elegant mind, and the graces of a classical taste. In delicacy of 
sentiment I could point out many touches, not unworthy the pen of 
the accomplished author of "The Man of Feeling," and the language 
of the essays bears no doubt marks of the author's character ; it is, 
I think, the style of a well-bred gentleman, not over solicitous to 
gain the reputation of what is commonly called a fine writer, but 
clothing his thoughts in an easy and graceful garb, equally removed 
from the stiffness of pedantry, the slovenliness of indolence, or the 
foppery of affectation. If I do not deceive myself, the style is such, 
that while every person of taste must be sensible of its beauties, the 
imitation of them would be no easy attempt. I wish my insig- 
nificance did not prevent me from hinting to the friends of the 
author, that the generation which was once pleased by his exertions 
is now quickly passing away ; and that a new and more numerous 
race of readers might be afforded equal pleasure by the collection of 
the scattered essays into one volume. 

I can add that an attempt was made to publish them, 
the profit if any to be given to the Infirmary, but from 
causes which I forget, it failed. In writing a reminiscence 
of Mr. Eagles's father, I cannot think that the foregoing 
extract can be deemed irrelevant. 

Mr. Eagles's classical attainments were of no ordinary- 
character. With the Greek authors he was most intimate, 
and they were the peculiar objects of his study. In proof, 
he left behind him numerous translations from the Greek of 
Athenseus. After his decease they were transmitted by his 



REMINISCENCES. XXIX 

son to the editor of " Blackwood's Magazine," and appeared 
in several of its earliest volumes. The classical scholar need 
not be told who Athen&us was, though the English reader 
may have had but little opportunity of knowing much about 
him. His " Deipnosophists," or " The Sophists discoursing 
at Table," or as others term it, " The Banquet of the 
Sophists," is the only one among his numerous works that 
remains. It contains a vast fund of amusement and infor- 
mation concerning the customs, the manners, and the 
sentiments of the Greeks, with a multitude of valuable facts 
and anecdotes illustrative of their literary and moral charac- 
ter; besides many elegant specimens of ancient poetry, 
and quotations from old Greek and Roman authors, whose 
writings have long been lost. The communications to 
" Blackwood " were accompanied with the following allusion 
to the translator, Mr. Eagles's father, with that peculiar 
diffidence and reluctance to appear to court public favor or 
applause, which was the characteristic feeling of his son's 
whole life. " It was," he says, " the work of an elegant 
scholar and an amiable man, who, alas ! is no more. He 
occasionally entertained and instructed his countrymen, but 
never intruded his name on public notice, and it is from this 
consideration alone that it is withheld." I am not aware if 
the translation of so many of the fragments of Athenseus as 
were made by Mr. Eagles, have ever been published, 
desirable as it would be, with the learned and amusing notes 
that accompany them. 

It was soon after I was admitted to friendly intercourse 
to the elder Mr. Eagles, and had obtained his confidence, that 
I was favored with the perusal of a manuscript volume, he 
had transcribed, and no doubt had improved its language 
and structure, without altering its details. It took me four 
nights to read it to an assembled family party at a Christmas 
fireside ; the narration being the adventures of an English- 
man who had been left upon a desert island, the stirring 



XXX REMINISCENCES. 

incidents in which are little inferior to those in " Robinson 
Crusoe," so much the delight of our younger days. I would 
have related the circumstances attending Mr. Eagles's 
possession of the volume by accidentally meeting with the 
author in the streets of Bristol, and his benevolent and con- 
tinued kindness to him to the day of his death, had I not 
been informed that the whole of the transactions were 
inserted in your newspaper the same month that they 
appeared in " Blackwood," with the title of " The Beggar's 
Legacy." The entire work was published in 1815 in four 
volumes, by the elder John Murray, and called " The 
Journal of Llewellin Penrose, a seaman." There are, how- 
ever, in the introductory remarks of my friend to the 
Beggar's Legacy, such strong marks of his genius and 
knowledge of the human mind and character, that I cannot 
help referring to them. In his delineation of Beggars and 
Beggary, there are some of the highest proofs of his versatile 
genius, his peculiar fantasies, the idiosyncracies of a mind 
poured forth in the most rapid profusion. They remind me 
most forcibly in their style of that of my school-fellow, 
Charles Lamb, in his Essays of " Elia." Mr. Eagles's prose 
did not partake so much of the phraseology of such elder 
writers as Sir Thomas Brown and Robert Burton, the 
author of "Anatomy of Melancholy," as did Charles Lamb's. 
But there is a terseness, a sententiousness peculiar to both, 
particularly in the early pages of the Beggar's Legacy. 
There is also a vast union of originality of mind, with a 
delicacy of feeling and tenderness of heart, highly fasci- 
nating in both writers. Each sentence in my friend's intro- 
ductory remarks on the character of Beggars and Beggary, 
is a sketch from which Hogarth, Bird, and Wilkie might 
have found suggestions for their talents in painting. Kind 
reader, turn to the last March number of " Blackwood," 
and judge for thyself. 

The elder Mr. Eagles took great interest in the Rowleian 
and Chattertonian controversy. He was cotemporary with 



REMINISCENCES. XXXI 

Catcott, Eudliall, Barrett, and others. I believe he was a 
Chatter tonian. At least, I hope he was. 

The father and son were united in the strongest bonds of 
attachment, with minds equally refined, and with similar 
pursuits, they were mutually proud of each other. They 
possessed purity of mind, a love of the fine arts, great taste 
in the pursuit of them, and affections most sincere. 

"Arcades ambo 
Et cantare pares, et respondere parati." 

An Octogenarian. 
Worcester, Dec. 17th, 1855. 



3Joim 0agleg— *&& Poet anti fainter. 

Nee amara Catullo, 
Tempus amicitise fata dedere meae.— Ovid, 

" Farewell ! too little and too lately known, 
Whom I had scarce begun to call mine own," 
But in whose heart, tun'd to the classic lyre, 
Dwelt the same glow of Promethean fire, 
Which mock'd like lightening from the starry clime, 
The sundering influence of space and time ! 

" Like will to like," to thee my spirit clung, 
While with thy lore mine ear enchanted rung, 
And on those lips, whence wit and wisdom fell, 
Tranc'd in mute admiration, yearn'd to dwell, — 
To thee, her chosen son, the Muse had given 
That boon indulged to few by favoring Heaven ; 
Inly to feel and own the common tie, 
Which knits pictorial art to poesy ; 
With equal power the twofold spell to wield, 



xxxn 



REMINISCENCES. 



To which both mind and heart submission yield. 
Through ear and eye alike the influence came ; 
The channel different, but th'effect the same. 
How did all Nature's glories, at command, 
Start into life beneath thy plastic hand ! 
How by thy pen's illusion taught to rise, 
Did beauty's form ideal charm our eyes ! 
What nervous chords thy magic skill awoke, 
Whose words depicted, and whose pencil spoke. 

Nor did mimetic art thy range confine ; 
The moral harmonies of life were thine. 
Virtue's proportion every duty kept, 
Nor of her rule fell short, nor over-stept ; 
Just to thyself, thy neighbour, and thy God, 
In the straight path of right thy footstep trod. 



O that when life's fallacious dream is o'er, 

And death transmit me to the changeless shore, 

With thee the blissful vision I may share, 

Of the "First good, first perfect, and first fair ;" 

With thee the fount of Art and Nature know, 

And hymn the Eternal Source whence truth and beauty flow! 



F. K 



Bath, November 24th, 1855. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHBR. 



The following Poems were interspersed in some 
Essays, written by the late Rev. John Eagles, and 
published in " Blackwood's Magazine" during the 
years 1834-5-6. The Essays have since been printed 
in a collected state in one volume, with the title of 
"The Sketches,". Many of these, with the poetry, 
were previously communicated to the Editor of this 
Garland for insertion in " Eelix Farley's Bristol 
Journal," of which he was the Proprietor. As the 
Garland is intended only for private distribution and 
not for sale, the Editor conceives he cannot be accused of 
an infringement of copyright by printing the poetry in 
The Sketcher in this form, as a tribute to the memory 
of a departed friend, and to prove that Mr. Eagles 
was as elegant a poet as he was a prose writer and a 
painter. 

In order clearly to understand these lyrical effusions 
a few preparatory remarks will precede them, contained 
in dialogues in The Sketcher between two imaginary 



personages, descriptive of their rambles, which took 
place among the romantic scenery of Lynmouth, in 
Devonshire, and the valleys and rocks at Clifton, near 
Bristol. The names of the two principal interlocutors 
are Sketches, and Pictor. 

The beauty of these Lyrics consists in their exuber- 
ance of fancy, their variety of versification, and in 
the developement of that vividness of imagination 
which characterised their Author, especially in his 
acquaintance with Fairy Mythology, its fabulous 
personages, their dwellings, and haunts 

" Under the cool spring, glassy and deep, 
Whose sandy cells the elves do keep ! 
With spells that none shall break, enwrap, 
So deep and so strong, 
That the spirit of song 
Shall not escape from the charmed ground." 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 



m* JFairg 



stands foremost in the fifth Essay of The Sketcher, 
and is thus introduced in the dialogue : — 

" In a saloon magnificently illuminated, you would see, recum- 
bent on a rose-coloured couch, a beautiful lady, from whose sweet 
presence shall emanate all power of enchantment. You are 
irresistibly led to her — you kneel to her as she sleeps — and" — 

" Precisely/' said Pictor, interrupting me, for the greater part 
of this vision was uttered before him — " precisely the sort of day- 
dream I have often held delightful communion with, in this very 
spot/' 

Sketcher. Then you may be pretty certain that such is the 
character of the scene, and, if you paint it, you must make the 
spectator of your picture see it all, or put him in a capacity to 
dream it. 

Pictor. I fear, if I could convey the vision, my picture 
would be rejected by eyes that do not see more in such a scene as 
this than rocks and odious trees. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 



Sketcher. Try them, nevertheless ; if you fail in captivating 
many, you will some, and delight yourself in the work; and I 
doubt if there be not more visions of poetry in the general mind 
than we give the world credit for ; the Poet's and the Painter's key 
only is wanting to open the secret and neglected chamber in which 
they lie. 

Pictor (drawing a sketch out of his portfolio). Here is an 
attempt at this scene. 

Sketcher. And what is this at the back — Poetry ? 

Pictor. I amuse myself sometimes more with rhyme than 
reason, and here is an instance. I have ever felt that these woods 
were the reign and kingdom of invisible fairy beings, and have so 
felt it when here, that the feeling has amounted to a poetical faith. 
I never show these productions; there is a cold and sneering 
contempt at the expression of anything like romantic feeling, that 
makes me often shrink from the contact of common fellowship, and 
I fly for refuge, and for society too, into an ideal world. The 
imagination is often awakened by the very shocks it meets with ; 
the more it is rubbed, like Aladdin's lamp, the more potent is the 
spell, and it becomes truly a Genie that conducts me into the 
regions of Fairyland. 

Sketcher. But to the Poetry ; — this is, I see, an incantation 
— to the invisible Lady. Allow me to read — 



Fairy, where dost dwell ? 
In the cowslip cup, or the blue harebell ? 
I see no form, I hear no sound — 
Yet it seemeth as thou wert all around — 

Fairy, where dost dwell ? 
I see thee not, but where'er I turn, 
Mine eyes do gaze, and my ears do burn. 
Fairy, undo thy spell. 
I call thee out of the twisted reed 
With a wood- wild note — with speed, with speed I 
I call thee from under the quivering leaf, 
That darts from the shade in green relief; 
; Tis green above and green below — - 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

The earth is bright with a sudden glow. 
Fairy, dost dwell 
Under the cool spring, glassy and deep, 
Whose sandy cells thy elves do keep ? 
Hast thou thy bed and thy shining throne, 
Over and under the pebble stone ? 

Art chasing the minnows round and round, 
That splash the pool with their silver bound ? 
Or, Fairy, tell, 
Dost thou over the surface float, 
In the rose-leaf curPd to a silken boat, 
That scarcely touches the water's brim, 
As the boughs do fan where it doth swim ? 

Fairy, where dost dwell ? 
Dost thou thy sylvan palace build, 
Teaching the tall trees from the rock 
Where to shoot and where to lock, 
And hang their leaves for the sun to gild — 
Letting the clear sky just peep through, 
To dot the golden roof with blue ; 
While thou tellest, with nods and becks, 
The elves that are thy architects, 
From the aspen, the beech, and the spicy fir, 
Around to fling 
Their scaffolding 
Of the glittering thread of the gossamer ? 
Or dost thou twine 
The sweet woodbine, 
And twist the shoot from the mossy bole 
Of the wild ash, round the narrow hole 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

That pierces an entrance dark and small 
Through the rocks to thy Fairy-hall, 

Where all is bright, 

With the glow-worm's light, 
That hang like gems on thy crystal wall ? 

Fairy, where'er 
Thou lurkest— in water, leaf, or flower ; 
Or floatest away on the balmy air, 

Around my bower, 
guard it well 
With charm and with spell, 
And bid thy Elves environ it — 
For there my love and I do sit ; 
And fright with thy whip of adder's skin, 
All that dare to look therein. 
So will I touch the gentle string, 
The while my love shall softly siug 

To thee, to thee — 
And not an ear 
The music shall hear, 
Besides ourselves, the charmed three. 

And I know by a sign, 

That joy is thine, 
When thou hearest our dulcet melody ; 
For as I touch at the springing sound 
A brighter gleam is over the ground — 
And the leaves do tremble all around. 

Fairy, undo thy spell. 



ii 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 5 

II. 

Sketcher. You have given such good reasons for the painter's 
double employment, that I shall venture to recommend it in " The 
Sketcher". Did your Fairy condescend to reply ? 

Pietor (facetiously). Why, as to whence the answer may 
come, I know not. Far be it from me to limit the power of the 
invisible agents of an invisible or visible world.— Being of spirit, 
they may insinuate themselves into our minds, and supply thoughts 
— for you know not whence they come. Here, however, is a reply 
(taking a paper from his portfolio) that you will detect at once to 
be a forgery, or, at least, deny inspiration, — the amusement of idle 
moments, as the busy world would call them, who, vexed with the 
necessity of the drudgery of their own indefatigable labours, will 
not allow any to be industrious but by their rule and measure. 



I come, I come, 

At thy gentle call ; 
But first I must seek our crystal hall — 
There to deposit the gems of dew, 
CulPd from the rose of pearliest hue ; 
To set in the crown of our Fairy King 
When we dance our mooDlight ring. 

Approach, approach 

With my ancient coach, 
Carved from the acorn's yellow cup, 
With my team of ants to drag me up, 

To the fairy mound. 

Then, under the ground, 
We'll dip, and bid the glow-worms clear 
Shine before in the secret road 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

Bag by Mole, our engineer, 
To our cavernous abode. 

Away, away, 

Run palfreys, run ; 

Our errand done, 
Ere thrice the owlet's wing can flap, 

We'll be in the bower, 

And leaf and flower 
With spells, that none shall break, enwrap, 

So deep and so strong, 

That the spirit of song- 
Shall not escape from the charmed ground ; 
But when all is still in the pale moonlight, 
Shall faintly, faintly, float around, 
And blend with the dreams of the silvery night- 

Away, away. 



III. 



Pioior. Lower down, where you see that twisting tree 
shooting out from the rock, like a serpent disentangling himself 
from the earth, there is a strange scene unlike this or any other in 
these woods. You see from thence light through to the bottom of 
the dell ; there is more a character of motion, or readiness to start 
into it, when the spell shall be taken off, that keeps all together as 
it is. That would be a scene for fairy revel or procession, and the 
twisted tree shooting across would seem the seat for spectators 
above the area for a dramatic scene. 

S&etcher. I know it well, and so it has often struck me. But 
this scene, it is the very reign of silence j our voices here would 
sound unhallowed, though they utterred hymns and anthems. 






LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 7 

Pictor. Just so. Yet that reminds me of Purcell's music, 
where Love awakens the frozen, slumbering genius of the mountain 
in his ice-bound cavern. 

Sketcher. That is poetry; and if you will not condemn the 
blunder, the music deepens the silence of the scene. 

Pictor. Because the description lies in the sound. Were you 
in such a scene, you would not require that mode of description ; 
you would be so satisfied by the actual silence of the scene, that the 
slightest sound would offend. Every sense would be dead but one. 
I have imagined a solitary sort of monumental and stony figure for 
this scene, and committed, perhaps, a greater blunder than you ; 
for I have ventured to make Silence herself speak, and, worse still, 
Echo take the lead in conversations. But personifications allow of 
great liberties. I have the attempt with me, for it is of recent 
performance. 

ECHO, 

Sleepest thou, Sister Silence, here, 
In the dim haunt of the lonely deer, 

Like the moon in her sable cloud ? 
So calm thy look, so still thy breath, 
Like a Nun that sleepeth her sleep of death, 

"Wrapt in her holy shroud. 

SILENCE. 

It is not death to breathe no word — 
Many the thoughts that are not heard, 

That deep in the bosom burn : 
There's a spirit that lives in the balmy air, 
The desert cave, and the wild deer's lair, 

Under the shadowy fern. 

ECHO. 

Awake ! Awake ! I bid thee awake 

To the horn and hound. Through brier and brake 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

They dash through the quiet stream. 
Hark ! Over the vale they proudly sweep- 
Awake, awake from thy sombre sleep, 

And spell of enchanted dream. 

SILENCE. 

Away, away with the hound and horn — 
Away with the sports of the garish morn. 

But there is a voice I love, 
That is heard at eve in the low twilight, 
Or when the moon in the blue of night 

Rideth serene above. 

then bring hither some true love pair, 
To breathe their vows to the gentle air, 

Softly and sweet to hear. 
And, Echo, do thou prolong the sound, 
Till it melt on the ear it cannot wound, 
Of Silence, reposing near. 

ECHO. 

Sister, repose, and around thy bed 
Thy Echo a spell of awe shall spread, 

To banish the prying crowd; 
A holier fear in my voice shall run, 
To guard where sleepeth my Sister Nun, 

VeiFd in her sable shroud. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 



IV. 

Seng. 

Sketcher. Perhaps I have more cause to lament on that 
score than you. Now are we under the influence of the scene. 
The sky is darker; clouds are passing over our heads, and deepening 
the sombre tones, and the light is removed from the young and 
playful foliage that shone out, making all that was sober the more 
recede : now all is more blended under one tone. To avert this, 
draw upon your memory for its own cheerful and refreshing stores, 
or on your imagination for objects less real, to "sickly o'er with 
the pale cast of thought." 

Pictvr. I will draw on both; (then searching his portfolio) 
— I always bring these old matters with me, as sketches made from 
nature, that I may again attach on the spot to their own locality. 
Here, then, is a description of our delight : sing it to what tune 
you please — 



Merry, merry we, at the greenwood tree ; 

For there is not a man of us all 
That harbours a thought, but what he ought, 

In a heart devoid of gall. 

Merry, merry we, at the greenwood tree, 

As ever was lark or thrush ; 
For we joke and we pun, and bask in the sun, 

All brethren of the brush. 

Merry, merry we, at the greenwood tree ; 

For we laugh, till each his head 
Throws back on the sheen of the costly green 

That Nature has widely spread. 

Merry, merry we, at the greenwood tree ; 
The scholar go thumb his books — 



10 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

The miser his bags and his sordid rags — 
We to our green, green nooks. 

The king to his court, the soldier his fort — 
The farmer go handle his beeves ; 

But merry, merry we, at the greenwood tree, 
Under the twinkling leaves. 



(©beron's l&'ng. 



Fancy might have attributed a power of incantation to the 
rhymes ; for sunshine returned, and touched every leaf with brilliancy 
again, and lighted up the whole scene with cheerfulness. Instead 
of crossing the ridge into the next dell, we preferred entering it 
from above, and therefore re-ascended. We sat upon the green edge, 
looking into the depth below us. For a while Pictor seemed 
absorbed in his recollection of past scenes and days. This, said he, 
waving his hand to the small space around us, was many a time our 
refectory. On one occasion, our party being rather more numerous 
than usual, and having found some young culprits in the woods 
mischievously destroying, we took the whim of constituting one of 
the party master of the feast — king of the revels. We fixed upon 
our friend Rex. He was old enough to be sage, and sage enough 
to play the boy — of nice discriminating perception and sure taste. 
We regularly installed him ; and I was poet on the occasion, — for 
which he made me bis laureate. Here are the lines : they remind 
me of the man, as they do vividly of the scene — 



Oberon's king in his fairy ring — 

But who shall be King of our company ? 

Give him the staff that can wisely laugh 
Merrily, merrily, merrily. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 11 

(All making obeisance.) 
Then fiat Lex, and vivat Rex — 

We bow to the sway of his royal hand ; 
By title inherent, Viceroy, Vicegerent, 
And Lord-lieutenant of Fairy Land. 

(Two last repeated.) 

And see his large brow unwrinkled now, 

And his eyes contract to their twinkling tone, 

As if Wisdom there was shutting out Care, 
And lighting the lamps of Mirth alone. 

And his mouth has a play, as if it should say — 
Thus, thus I decree our greenwood law ; 

Join all merry men of the rock and glen 
In the laugh till it shake your sides — ha ! ha ! 

(Two last repeated.) 

Hark ! the roeks around re-echo the sound, 
And proclaim him King of our company ; 

And the trembling reed, and the veriest weed. 
Shall rejoice beneath his sovereignty. 

Then fiat Lex, and vivat Rex — 

We bow to the sway of his royal hand ; 

By title inherent, Viceroy, Vicegerent, 
And Lord-lieutenant of Fairy Land. 

(Two last repeated.) 



12 LYRICS FROM THE SKUTCHER. 

VI. 

W& Sbtoeet Guitar. 

Sketcher. I know some beautiful grounds, where was a 
magnificent larch, now departed, to which Garrick, who was a 
frequent visitor, always used to take off his hat and call her 
the Queen of the Woods. Now, what do you conceive to be the 
character of this scene? 

Pictor. Shall I show it you in rhyme ? Here are some lines 
I once made near this spot j read them. 
Sketcher reads — 

Touch not the sweet guitar, Lady, 

Under the greenwood tree ; 
Throw not the spell of thy voice, Lady, 
Over the wild and free ; 
For it telleth how love in a scene like this, 
Were all-sufficient for earthly bliss. 

See where the pale rose twines, Lady, 

Hear ye the wild-dove coo 
Above in the fragrant woods, Lady, 
That softest airs do woo ? 
All here is a charm to aid thy spell ; 
Lady, I fear to love too well. 

In chambers of silk and gold, Lady, 

Touch thou the sweet guitar, 
'Mid crowds and sparkling lights, Lady, 
Thyself the brightest star. 
Amid things too costly and rare for me — 
there I can listen and still be free. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 13 

VII. 

jWoonlfg&t. 



Pictor. This should be a scene for moonlight, when the 
waters are still, or give only a sound that is of the same character 
as, and more expressive than, stillness, an intermitting lazy sound, 
that leaves meditation free. 

"Oh, had I a cave on some wild distant shore ! " 

The !i distant shore" of the poet conveys well the seclusion of this. 

SJcetcher. This scene would well suit the tenderness of com- 
miseration, if under such a light that would soften all that is 
rugged in it. 

Pictor. Yes, by moonlight. Or, would it not do for those 
strange imaginary creatures, bodies and spirits, the Ariels, that " do 
bidding in the vasty deep/' and drop intelligence in sea-shells from 
far-off lands in ocean's girth, to be gathered by the pure, the 
faithful, and the gifted ? 

SJcetcher. What think you of this being the cave of Proteus, 
whose indefatigable care of his Phocse has something so strange in 
it, that, if the sea-god were not gifted with prophecy and power of 
metamorphosis, it would be but whimsical ; but being what he was, 
it is wild and poetical. Now evening is coming in, and you may 
expect his return ; but he will only just look round the corners 
of the rocks, for he is shy, and, seeing us, will be quickly off, and 
you will hear the plash of his herd into the sea again. 

Pictor. Where would you place a choir of mermaids more 
satisfactorily than on that smooth sand ? It is the mystery and 
wonder about all these imaginary beings that delight us. We may 
soon go into the common world, where there is no mystery, no 
wonder, but all is bare, and here we exercise a new faculty. It is 
in such places as this one really enjoys the sea, not in noted and 
frequented watering-places, where the hiding shells are poked out of 
their sandy beds by regiments of walking-sticks and parasols. This 
is a spot for dreamy moonlight, Such have I seen, and endeavoured 
to embody the dream it gave. Shall I forestall the night and 
repeat it here ? 

SJcetcher. By all means, and I will half-close my eyes, that 
the verse may let in its own light, and I may see in your dream. 

Pictor. Moonlight; then let it be 



14 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

MOONLIGHT. 

Take the boat to the yellow shore, 
When the slow-rising moon is seen 
To tinge with the hue of pearly green, 

The edge of the Purple Sea — • 
And has sent her glistening scouts before, 

That ride on the wave, 
Ov smoothly glide where the waters lave 

The sleep of the lonely sands. 
To summon abroad the elfin bands, 

To waken their airy minstrelsy — 
While inlet, and creek, and salt bay round, 
Answer soft to the searching sound, 
Sprites of the night, be free, be free ! 
Adore the Queen of the Purple Sea. 

Take the boat to the yellow shore, 
And where in the beams the rocks do glisten ; 
There hang the Lyre of mystic song ; 
And steal away to some shadowy nook, 

And listen, listen ; 

The sprites of the night 
Shall hover about in the silvery light, 
While their fingers shall play the chords among- 
Then far in the depths of the grey caves look, 
While the mermaids weave their golden hair, 
And bend their heads to their wilder air ; 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 15 

And as seaward their voices fall and swell, 
Old Triton shall hear their musie float, 

And deep, deep, 

From his ocean sleep, 
Shall rouse him, and take his wreathed shell, 

And wind his hollow lengthened note, 
To bid his drowsy monsters shake, 
Their shaggy locks aside, and wake, 
And flounder in joyous jubilee, 
To welcome the Queen of the Purple Sea. 

Take the boat to the yellow shore ; 
But when the cold pale star of morn, 
With curious eye abroad shall peep, 
And a gloomier spirit shall brood forlorn 

Over the dull and curling deep ; 
And the croaking cormorant's doleful cry 
Shall drown the voices that fainter grow, 
And the visions fly 
From the gazing eye, 
Till all are lost below, below, 
And o'er them the sullen waters flow ; 
The boat unmoor 
From the yellow shore ; 
But seek not the busy world again ; 
For a charm and a spell 
On thy soul doth dwell, 
And thou mayest not mix with mortal man ; 



16 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

But quietly laid 

In leafy shade — 
Await till the sprites of the night be free 

To waft thee o'er 

To the yellow shore, 
To welcome the Queen of the Purple Sea. 



VIII. 

W>z punter's €&rate. 

SlcetcJter. I now left my friend in the Churchyard, while I 
went to the Valley of Rocks Inn, to make inquiry of Mr. Litson, a 
very civil landlord, respecting letters, and to make some other 
arrangements for the comfort of our party below. On my return 
to the Churchyard, I found Pictor sitting opposite the grave, with 
pencil and paper. "What is your sketch?" said I. He rose to 
meet me, and put the paper into my hand. It contained the 
following lines : — 



Where shall the sunbeams play ? 

Where shall the moonbeams light ? 
For him who bade them stay, 

With hand of power and might — 
Upon the Painter's grave. 

Where the stormy pageants rise, 
The harmless lightnings fly ? 

Where the magician lies 

That fiVd them in the sky — 
Before the Painter's grave. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 17 

Where shall the flowerets shed 

Sweet odours ? O'er his earth 
Who from their lowly bed 

Gave them immortal birth — 
Upon the Painter's grave. 

Where shall the aged rest, 

And own one friend he found, 
That thought grey hairs were best, 

And age like holy ground ? 
Upon the Painter's grave. 

Where shall the maiden meek, 

Whose beauty would not die, 
Go lean her pensive cheek, 

Or look with gentle eye ? 

Upon the Painter's grave. 



IX. 

S?ong. 

Shetcher. We were forming our plans for the morrow ; and I was 
expatiating with much delight upon the beauty of the valleys we 
were to visit, when Pictor remarked, that there was something not 
quite pleasing, especially under the influence of this fading light 
and scene, in descriptions of sunny and green spots, endeared too 
by many recollections. " Were we," said he, " far removed from 
them, we might think upon them as regions that the blessed orb of 
day might be still looking upon (for we are not over particular in 
measurement of degrees). To be out of instant reach may be 
enough for the imaginative ; but now that they are so near us, and 
we know them to be under the deep veil of an almost awful solitude, 



18 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 



buried in nature's sleep so like death, the fancy passes instantly 
from the brightness to the darkness. The transition is sudden and 
painful. The more vivid the description or the recollection, the 
deeper the gloom in contrast. It is the sunniest, the brightest 
object, throws the darker shadow." There was a pause ; to 
break which, the guitar was placed in Pictor's hands. He bent his 
head to the instrument a few seconds, as in deep thought ; touched 
a few chords; and feelingly, with subdued voice, sang the following 

SONG. 

O, lay me not by the clear fountain's brink, 
Where sweet flowers intertwine and kiss, 
And the pure crystal drink — 
To dream of bliss. 



Lay me not under where the green trees grow, 
And the wild bees hum ever round, 
And waving branches throw 
Poetic sound. 

Lay me not where serenely breaks the sky, 
Through green and golden leaves above ; 
Soft shadows floating by, 

Where all breathes love. 

0, lay me not where the sea's rippling wave 
Flays leisurely among bright shells, 
On yellow beach — in cave, 
Where Echo dwells. 

Trees fragrant, and soft sounds, and gentle airs, 
May charm to joy the vacant breast ; 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 19 

Or sooth life's common cares 
To peaceful rest. 

To me they are like a forsaken feast, 
That still the bridal lustre bears — 
Where death the only guest 
The garland wears. 



X. 

Pttot's Song. 

14 We must break this spell," said T. " Pictor has been visiting 
the Painter's Grave, and ruminating ' sweet and bitter melancholy/ 
Let us return. We have yet one social pleasure that will dissipate all 
gloom; when the clear transparent pure white china cups shall throw 
up their perfumed incense to the ' Good Genius/ we shall be cheerful 
again/' We rose, and moved homewards. As Pictor was desirous 
of seeing the effect of the low light over the scene from the little 
pier, we walked aside to the steps of the look-out house. Since we 
had left it, a great change had taken place. The high hill, on which 
Linton stands, had now lost the marks of all petty divisions, and 
appeared one wooded dark mass, yet varying in depth of shade and 
tone of colour, as it was nearer to, or receded from the eye. Above 
Linton was a bright star, shining, as Pictor remarked, upon the 
Painter's grave. The scene was extremely fascinating ; and whoever 
may be pleased by daylight with the lines of this view, let him be 
careful to visit it at such a light. It gave a perfect idea of secure 
rest — repose, upon the confines of the most dangerous element. 
Every house was a nest of security, and the blessed balm and 
influence of sleep might be within, and Heaven's ample protecting 
curtain over all. Pictor would have remained here hours, but it 
was time to retire, and we were soon in our simple rustic Gothic 
cottage room. All was now bright and cheerful within; our tea 
refreshed us, and we yet passed an hour or two delightfully. To 
show the change in his feelings, Pictor offered us another song. 
He in his turn took the guitar. 



20 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

pictor's SONG. 

0, who would sit in the moonlight pale, 

MocFd by the hooting owl ? 
0, who would sit in the silent vale ? 

— -There let the winds go howl. 
Our parlour floor, our parlour floor, 
Is better than mountain, moss, and moor. 

This lamp shall be our orb of night, 

And large our shadows fall 
On the flow'ry beds all green and bright, 

That paint our parlour wall ; 
And silken locks, and laughing eyes, 
Shine brighter than stars in bluest skies. 

0, the nightingale's is but a silly choice, 

To trill to the evening star, 
A listener cold — and sweeter the voice 

That sings to the light guitar. 
Eor moonlight glades, and brawling brooks, 
We will have music and sunny looks. 

0, we will the happy listeners be, 

When songs and tales begin ; 
And at our open casement, see ! 

How the rose it is peeping in, 
As it were a fairy, with half-closM eye, 
That on this our pleasanter world would spy, 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 21 

0, who would exchange a home like this, 

Where sweet affection smiles, 
For the gardens, and banks, and "bowers of bliss," 

In beauty's thousand isles ? 
0, that Kaisar or King the peace could find 
Within four bright w T alls and a cheerful mind ! 



XI. 

Sbong. 

Sketcher. I went in search of Pictor, and found him in that 
very scene he so much admired on our entering the valley, 
with his back against a large mossy stone, in whose shadow he 
was reposing. Though the very spot of his recent admiration, his 
bodily eyes at least were closed to its beauties ; but it was evident, 
from the expression of his features, that his mind's eye had most 
pleasing visions. I stood some time before I would disturb him. 
I saw that if he had not been sketching he had been composing, for 
his pencil and paper were lying in the sunshine. As I approached, 
the movement I made among the stones attracted his attention ; 
and turning to me with a smile, he asked me if I and the fishes had 
settled the point, and what they thought of Greek; that he had 
departed to leave the communication free. " You, at least," said 
I, " have had your dreams (pointing to his paper, which I found 
written throughout), and to avert all evil that may be in them, are 
following the practice of the ancients, by showing them to the sun. 
What does this illuminated MS. denote?" " I have been," said 
he, " endeavouring to impress this scene upon my mind by the aid 
of rhymes. Read them to me ; but recollect they are not Greek." 



Upon a bedded bank, 

With flowers between the grass ; 
And by a crystal stream, 

That shall smoothly pass, — 
There let me lie. 



22 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

Let the hanging boughs 
Wave above my head ; 

And let the flickering beams 
Through the leaves be shed- 
There let me lie. 

Let the happy bird 
There still happy be; 

Golden beetles creep, 

And take no thought of me- 
There let me lie. 

Let the white-crowned flower 
Shrink not to be seen ; 

Raised on a sceptred stem, 

As it were the Queen — 

There let me lie. 

Strife there cannot be 
In a scene like this ; 

Where the leaf and flowers, 
And trees and water kiss- 
There let me lie. 

Life hath here repose 
In the green above ; 

In the green below, 

All whose light is love !— 
There let me lie. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 23 

Troubles will not come, 

Sorrow passseth by, 
But Fancy looketh down 

With her cheerful eye — 
There let me lie. 

Who shall enter in ? 

But for whom 'tis meet — 
All with sweetest look, 

And with gentle feet, 

Whilst there I lie. 



XII. 

Towards the termination of the walk, for it is of sufficient 
length to deserve the name, is a small path that leads to a weir. It 
was amongst some trees here that we took our seats on mossy 
stones, and greatly did we enjoy the quiet beauty of the scene, and 
the gleams of sunshine continually stealing upon and retiring from 
the cool green of the intricate foliage and herbage around us. We 
had converse, and music both of the guitar and the voice; and the 
subdued and constant accompaniment of the river added to the 
charm ; for it tended to make us and nature one party— and a 
happy party we were. What songs were sung, or what was said, 
I am not permitted to utter. But Pictor's doings are within my 
privilege of speech ; and as he generally furnished us with an original 
song, not inappropriate to the scene, when the guitar was put into 
his hands, with great feeling he touched the strings, and after a 
short prelude thus sang : — 

Where flows the tranquil stream, 

So smoothly passing on, 
Like to a placid dream ? 

; Tis to its Ocean gone. 



24 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

Whence flows it ? By soft bank, 
Where gentle maidens lie ; 

Their music it has drank, 
And rain from beauty's eye. 

Augmented by sweet tears, 
Witness of tender looks, 

Full many a tale it hears, 
Told by in-running brooks. 

It bears them all away, 
Carelessly passing on — 

Looks, tears, sighs, music, — they 
Are to their Ocean gone ; 

Fair flowers that kiss the wave, 
Bright leaves by autumn shed, 

Float to their watery grave, 
To their eternal bed. 

Thus Life, a joyous dream, 
Thus Life, a tale of woe, 

Is but the passing stream 
That doth to Ocean go. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 25 

XIII. 

^6e ^Remonstrance. 

Sketcher. Did you ever hear Eulenstein play his Jew's harps ? 
What a treat would it be to have him and them in this spot ! 

Pictor. Yes, I have heard him, and it is precisely what 
the imagination would conceive fairy music to be. It is 
delicate, you might say, to faintness, if it were not so minutely 
distinct in its slightest vibrations. You would, were you to hear it 
in this green and brown seclusion, dream you were invisibly 
conveyed to a fairy concert. We might shut our eyes, throw 
ourselves on the grass, be wrapt, and borne away to the fairyland 
of dreams; and as the music would float around us, and be in us, 
even in our very souls, awake to vivid visions. Strange — but I 
have been so thinking, and here is the Remonstrance to one of clay, 
that the Invisible Lady herself may sing to Eulenstein's harps. 



Mortal man, of flesh and blood, 
What wouldst thou with a Fairy-Love ? 

Where should we spread 

Our bridal bed ? 
Under the depths of the roaring flood, 
That fills thee with dread as it rolls above ! 

Canst thou tread on ocean cave ? 
Canst thou gaze on the emerald light, 

That plays round the wall 

Of the coral hall, 
Where studded with pearls the sea-flowers wave, 
Like moving stars in their azure height ? 

Is there charm that can set thee free, 

Till thou melt and mix in the sunbeams rare ? 



26 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

Canst thou float 

In our Nautilus boat. 
Over the green and glassy sea, 
To chase the Spirits of viewless air ? 

Thou wert born for leafy bower — 

We live in the spells wherewith 'tis fraught- 

In the secret sound, 

The gleam on the ground, 
Thou art substance — we are power — 
And what is thy love but a fleeting thought 

Thou art a thing of decay and death, 
With a form, but lent thee, awhile to wear ; 

The narrow room 

Will cover thy bloom — 
But we that breathe not mortal breath. 
Can take a thousand shapes more fair. 

Water we touch, and it does not wet, 
Fire we pierce, and it does not burn ; 

Nor earth can hold, 

Nor air enfold, 
For we chase the stars that are going to set, 
And girthing the world with the sun return. 

Thou creepest but in an earthly cell — 
We live in the clouds of the gorgeous east, 

That shoot and fly 

From the summon' d sky, 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 27 

To shape us a palace wherein to dwell, 
When we hold our Fairy-feast. 

Our banquet can eye of thine behold ? 
Thy lip can it taste our charmed cup ? 

The regions of light 

Are but shades of night 
To the blaze of our palace of living gold, 
That nought but our presence has lighted up. 

Mortal man, of flesh and blood, 

What would' st thou with a Fairy-Love ? 

Where should we spread 

Our bridal bed ? 
Under the depths of the roaring flood ! 
Or in realms thou canst not reach above ! 



XIV. 



^v. t 

\T W$m i% JFollg. 

How refreshing is the shade in the day's heat, which here we 
only know in the golden gleams, that lighten up for beauty only ! 
This is perfect peace ; we become gentle in our freedom, and we 
would not check a beetle in its enjoyment, and are better for the 
belief that the poor reptiles are sensible of the same blessed security, 
and alive to the beauty of the repose. Nature gave them not eyes to 
see only the stems and grass blades, whereon they crawl — I will 
venture, in my poetical cieed, to affirm that they are all thankful. 
There is more folly and more ingratitude to Heaven in a country 
full of houses, than under green boughs ; and so here will I sing 
you my experience — 



28 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

There is folly in all the world, 

Or go we East or West, 
A folly that vexes the old, 

And keeps the young from rest. 

The miser has folly enough, 
For his soul is in sordid bags, 

And the spendthrift's folly, alas ! 
Brings him to sin and rags. 

There is folly in statements schemes, 

For, spite of their plotting and wit, 
There's a wiser hand above, 
That leads them with bridle and bit. 

There's folly in power and pride, 
That makes full many to fall ; 

There's a folly in maiden's love, 
But that is the sweetest of all. 

But of all the follies, the worst — 
For it stings with constant smart, 

The scorpion of the mind — 
Is that of a thankless heart. 

For the thankless heart is curs'd 

And with blessings encompass'd grieves- 

For it cannot rejoice with the hand, 
That gives nor yet receives. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 29 

To be thankful makes better the good ; 

And if Heaven should send us ill, 
There is kindness in Him that gives — 

So let us be thankful still. 

0, let us be thankful in youth. 

And let us be thankful in age — 
Let us be thankful through life, 

For there's pleasure in every stage. 

Youth has its own sweet joys, 

And he must be blind as a bat, 
Who cannot see Love's sweet smile, 

And will not be thankful for that. 

There are friends the dearest to cheer, 

Ere half our sand is run — 
And affection makes wintry days 

As bright as the summer's sun. 

And when from the dearest on earth 

We part, let us hope 'tis given 
A boon to the thankful still, 

To meet them again in Heaven. 



30 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

XV. 

O, ¥e are Jpools. 

While Pictor was singing the latter stanzas of his song, a poor 
playful squirrel shook the light boughs that bounded back from his 
spring. The sportive creature characterised the charmed security 
of the scene, as he gambolled and leaped so near our presence — 
then suddenly mounted upwards, through the golden leaves that 
glittered in relief of the blue sky, and was lost to our sight. Was 
the music his pleasure ? did instinct teach him to trust ? did he feel 
sure companionship, and invite us, as co-tenants of the greenwood, 
to take sweet pastime with him? " Blessed is the sanctity of the 
greenwood shade/' said Pictor — " it protects all — and takes tyranny 
out of the heart of man, and puts in tenderness." 



0, ye are fools that love to stand 

Above your fellow-men ; 
To scatter by the wave of hand, 
And kill by stroke of pen. 
The sunshine and the greenwood shade 
For Peace and Innocence were made. 

Ye are not happier than your slaves, 

And better may not be ; 
For ye contemn what virtue craves, 
Sweet love and sympathy. 
Better to rule one wayward mind, 
Than lord it over half mankind. 

By banks of river soft and clear, 

'Mid greenwood boughs to lie — 
To hear sweet sounds with thankful ear, 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER, 31 

And see with thankful eye — 
To feel my heart is linked with all 
I see and hear — or great or small — 

'Tis Nature's peace — proclaimed around, 

In all her bounty given — ■ 
'Tis writ in sunshine on the ground, 
And breath' d in airs from Heaven; 

Before all power and high degree 

Is love beneath the greenwood tree. 



XVI. 

^6e €fat. 



" I was very much tickled with the notion of their fine studies, 
and thought of the ' Lay of Aristotle,' " quoth Pictor, " and made 
a glee on the subject, which, if our party meet us with the guitar 
as they promised, I will make interest to have performed." 



There were three students sat on a hill 

Over the pleasant Lynn — 
Their books were closed, yet they held them still, 

Each one beneath his chin. 
And they vowed no more o'er the leaves to pore, 

Or even to look therein. 



32 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 



All. Where shall we pass the rest of the day ? 
1st Stud. With me, with me, with me — 

And we will quaff, and we will laugh, 
The merry, merry hours away. 

All. Where shall we pass the rest of the day ? 
2d Stud. With me, with me, with me — 

For the joyous boat it is afloat, 
And we will away to sea. 

All. Where shall we pass the rest of the day ? 
3d Stud. With me, with me, with me — 

Our lines we'll throw in the Lynn below, 
And busy, busy anglers be. 

Now there came and sat at each one's side, 

Margery, Kate, and Joan, 
And they look'd, and look'd, and each one cried, 

With me, with me, with me — 
Tor why should we pass it all alone 

Under the greenwood tree ? 



All. Where shall we pass the rest of the day f 

Each Stud.! With th with th ith thee< 
to his lady. J ' ' 

And so it was sweet holiday 
Under the greenwood tree. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 33 

XVII. 

Wbt 33ofoer. 



We were on our return quickly joined by our party at the rock, 
and soon commenced our enjoyment of the rest of the day in music 
and social converse — for the latter, the spot being most favourable. 
The guitar was, as usual, in frequent use, and Pictor sang his song 
of the Bower. 



O, the spot were I met my own true-love 
Is the sweetest spot upon earth ; 

It is not where the wild herds rove, 
Nor the scene of idle mirth. 

0, 'tis a shady, quiet spot, 

Where not a sound is heard, 
Save the silvery voice of the busy brook, 

And the song of the gentle bird. 

0, sweet is the green, above and around, 
0, sweet is the leaf and flower ; 

But sweeter is she, that a spell has wound, 
To make it a fairy bower. 

The flaring sunbeams pierce it not, 
Yet it beams with verdant light, 

As if angel's feet had touch'd the spot, 
And had left it ever bright. 



34 LYRICS PROM THE SKETCHER. 

XVIII. 

^z Hgre. 

"All around us," quoth Pictor, "is Poetry. Its very spirit 
pervades Nature and Art. — It lurks in this little instrument" 
(taking the guitar) " as in grove and cavern ; even this poor thing 
may speak oracularly — and deserves our praise." So here is my 
song to it : — 

" 'Mid flickering sun and shade, 
A lyre was idly laid, 
Where the air with the waters play'd, 
But not for their sake would the Spirit awake 
That therein his bed had made. 

Youth, in the morning ray, 
Glistening came that way, 
And gaily bade e Good-day/ 
And staid not to fling across the string 
His fingers, but walked away. 

Pleasure, with careless eye, 
And with a jocund cry, 
Came tripping, and passed it by. 
But the Spirit was stirred nor by voice nor word, 
And the low wind did but sigh. 

Then came stately Pride 
Up with a lordly stride — 
Took the lyre, but looFd aside — 
Struck full and fast — and away he pass'd-*- 
And the spiritless discord died. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 35 

Then mad Ambition came : 
All sounds, he said, are tame, 
But the 'streperous trump of Fame ; — 
And turned from the string as a worthless thing, 
That might his honour shame. 

Now, in the quiet eve, 
Love came there to grieve, 
That Hope should e'er deceive : 
And the Spirit awoke at his gentle stroke, 
And cried — f Believe, believe/ 

Then sweetest notes upflew, 
All things greener grew, 
As under heaven's own dew — 
And the waters along they flowed with song, 
And music around them threw. 

Stretched on holy ground, 
By loved sepulchral mound — 
Friendship heard the sound ; 
Arid rose in the light of the starry night, 
And a sweeter solace found. 

Love, from his grassy seat, 
Awed, uprose to greet, 
And checking his hand discreet, 
More softly play'd — and his lyre he laid, 
Down at her silverv feet. 



36 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

Since then the Spirit that slept 
Within, hath wakeful kept ; 
Soothing the hearts that wept — 
For Friendship and Love, like spirits above, 
Have hallowed the chords they swept." 



XIX. 

®fie €£oo& an& I5bil Spirits. 

Pictor had finished his study long before me, and had wandered 
on. When he returned, he found me fastening my portfolio. I 
was glad of this, that we might pursue our scrutiny of the river 
together. 

" I know not how it is," said he, " but this scene has not been 
sufficiently powerful, though it has employed my pen, to keep in 
bonds my fancy. Under the suggestions of our former conversation 
I have in'spirit traversed earth and air too. And here is the sketch." 

SPIRIT OF LOVE. 

Spirit of Evil, whence art thou ? 

SPIRIT OF EVIL. 

I come from the wretch with the burning brow 
And uplifted hand. — Oh, it pleaseth thee well, 
That I yield the truth to thy potent spell. 

SPIRIT OF LOVE. 

Spirit of Evil, thou crossest my way, 

As I bear the penitent's prayer to Heaven. 

SPIRIT OF EVIL. 

And why should the daring sinner pray ? — 
No ! blood for blood — shall it be forgiven ? 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 37 



SPIRIT OF LOVE. 



Yes — blood for blood, and for human guilt — 
For sin has redeeming blood been spilt. 

SPIRIT OF EVIL. 

Then let me depart, and question me not. 
There yet are souls of too deep a blot — 
And they shall be mine ; with their living breath 
My bidding to do — and mine in death, 

SPIRIT OF LOVE. 

Spirit of Evil, I bid thee stay. 

SPIRIT OF EVIL. 

Thy spell is upon me, and I obey. — 

Speak, speak ! — but, oh ! let me shun thy look. 

SPIRIT OF LOVE. 

Read thou the names in this sacred book — 
The Book of Life — of the souls that thou 
Would' st have plunged in the lake ; where are 
they now ? 

SPIRIT OF EVIL. 

I cannot curse ; but, oh ! let me fly ! 

SPIRIT OF LOVE. 

Oh, now then I know thine agony ! 
Angels of Heaven rejoice when one 



38 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

Of millions is saved, by thee undone; 
But deeper anguish is thine to know, 
That one escape from thy grasp of woe — 
The curse upon all thy triumphs won — 
Read the names of the blessed, one by one, 

SPIRIT OF EVIL. 

Let me depart — away, away ! 

SPIRIT OF LOVE. 

Spirit of Evil, I bid thee stay ! 
Now, in the path of our blessed air, 
What breathest thou ? 

SPIRIT OF EVIL. 

Thy spell, thy spell 
Is on me — the flames of deep despair^— 
Within, within I am burning hell. 

SPIRIT OF LOVE. 

Away, away, lest Angels of Love 

Weep even for thee, 

In thine agony, 
As they sing their hymns of bliss above. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 39 

XX. 

<HIoman's 2Fears. 

Who is it says, 

" There is a luxury in tender tears, 
Beyond the notion of a vulgar mind V* 

And woman's tears could well-nigh make Spenser " all for pity 
die." Shall I tell you what they are ? 



Oh, what are woman's tears ! 
When they arise from fancied woe, 
The ocean's waves — that waste and wide, 
Bear worthless weed — in restless tide, 
They have their ebb and flow. 

Oh, what are woman's tears ! 
If from the fount of gentle love — 
The dewdrops of the blessed morn, 
Kiss'd by Heaven's breath as soon as born, 
As meet for realms above. 

Oh, what are woman's tears ! 
If pour'd in scorn and wounded pride — 
A torrent from a mountain source, 
That, pent a moment, rends its course 
And spreads a ruin wide. 

Oh, what are woman's tears ! 

If thankful joy the flood compels— 



40 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

They fall but like the gentle rain, 
That blesseth and is blessed again, 
And fills the sacred wells. 

Oh, what are woman's tears ! 
The one soft tear in pity sped — 
Pearl beyond price, the crystal gem, 
That shines in Mercy's diadem, 
And such as Angels shed. 



XXI. 

®fi« ipaerg 23anfc. 

We passed scenes which I have before described, and often 
loitered to observe, if not new effects, yet such as struck us with a 
peculiar freshness of their beauty. There was one, from which I 
have made many a study, that instantly arrested the attention of us 
all — never, perhaps, was it seen under more magical light. It was 
close and narrow over the stream. From a rocky bank, more or 
less perceptible as the intermitting foliage allowed, arose trees, with 
dark but occasionally golden-edged boles, that mostly hung over the 
river. One ancient, ivy-bound, and of greater growth, lifted itself 
largely into the sky ; but below its height we saw the tops of other 
trees, that showed the ascent of the hill. Looking down the stream, 
we saw but a continuation of the character, that all might be in 
accordance, as if under the dominion of one power. The motion 
of the water gliding over its deep brown bed — its descents — the 
dark holes between the masses of rock, in which the twisted roots 
and parts were but half visible — the returning foam, individual and 
numberless, following in the eddy the larger collections — the 
umbrageous green — the tenderly pencilled leaves — all united to 
affect the imagination, to the creation and embodying of beings that 
might be — and to spread the fascination of invisible power, till 
there would be almost a persuasion that we had crept into the 
territory, where what met the eye was but the delusion covering 
other and stranger things. " I once," said Pictor, " made a Sketch 
from Nature here, when I was gifted with new sight. Here it is in 
my portfolio. Let us see if it be true — if it be, let it have music. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 41 

" The Faery Bank— the Faery Bank — 
Where myriads dance all the silvery night, 
And hold their revels at soft moonlight — 

Till all the sweet dews be drank : 

Oh, it lies in the midst of parting streams, 
That steal away 'mid embowering trees, 
Whose leaves all play untouched by the breeze, 

That flicker with sunless gleams. 

By day the fays hang there their beds, 
And, as they wake, from their bright eyes throw 
Looks that gild the water's flow, 

That a sweeter music spreads. 

And at twilight, twilight you might see 
To the island bank the bubbles float 
On the dark brown stream ; 'tis a fairy boat, 

Each one with its company. 

The Queen is rowed in a lily's leaf — 
The rowers are clad in silver sheen, 
With the rainbow's faintest hues between, — 

Oh ! then let your stay be brief. 

The King, in the flower of faery bliss, 
Sleeps folded the while, till the slender stem 
Bends to the wave, that like a bright gem 

Rises his feet to kiss. 



42 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

Oh, the Faery Bank, the Faery Isle, 
On these it glows with such rare light, 
That the envious stars all twinkle white, 

And it beams with a golden smile. 

Oh, hasten away, — oh, hasten away, 
For a thing of human woe and sin 
Ne'er may mix with their kith and kin, 

Pure as the morning ray." 



XXII. 

®6e ilftoonlt'c$t irtMtatfon. 

It was to be our last evening at Lynmouth ; we were reluctant, 
therefore, to leave scenery which we might not again see — at least 
the same happy party. It had become endeared to us for its own 
sake, and for each other's sakes. We lingered on our way; and it 
was sunset (and a glorions one) ere we reached our lodgings. We 
were not fatigued ; and, under the influence of a last evening, could 
not resist the temptation, after our tea, of enjoying the sea-shore in 
the cool quietude of night. We were soon by the water-side, under 
the cliffs that cast their obscure shadows into the silvery moonlight 
shed around us. It was a lovely night. How sweet an instrument 
is the guitar, and how sweet and yet powerful the voice poured to 
the silent atmosphere of night; as if moon, stars, and invisible 
spirits of the air, all hushed, were listening to the human minstrelsy. 
Many were our songs — mostly tender or melancholy ; some well 
known, and therefore not the less enjoyed. Our friend Pictor, who 
had now thrown off the modest diffidence which would at first have 
kept his compositions secret, readily took the instrument, and sang— 

The bird is in her nest, 

And the stars are in the sky, 
And the sleeping fields are blest 
By the moon's soft eye. 
Then come, my sweet Mary, with blessing tome. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER, 43 

How tranquil all above, 

How tranquil is the earth, 
Like a child in Heaven's love 
Cradled sweetly from its birth. 
come, dearest Mary, with blessing to me. 

How stilly sounds the sea, 

Of toil and labours o'er, 
And the wave so mad and free 

Now calmly seeks the shore. 
come, my sweet Mary, with blessing to me. 

How soft the quiet light 

O'er the green of earth is spread, 

And the stream thereon runs bright, 
Like to a silver thread. 
come, dearest Mary, with blessing to me. 

There is no waking eye, 

There is no listening ear, 
All creatures sleeping lie, 
All is ours far and near. 
Then come, dearest Mary, with blessing to me. 

Oh, Mary, come with me, 

There are spells that far expand, 



44 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

That we might wanderers be, 
In this our own sweet land. 
Then come into the silvery night with blessing to me. 

It became late; and, as we had to travel the next morning, we 
were obliged to return. The intimation of this necessity was 
followed by a silence that was only broken by the expression of 
our gratitude and regret. "Farewell, Lynmouth ! " The words 
are still a charm upon the memory; and I will not break it 
" Farewell, Lynmouth." 



XXIII. 

Song. 

Do parish registers present us with blank leaves for any month 
in the year ? Does not duty laugh and look cheerful, and courtship 
gentle, as well by the fireside as in the green field ? Every season 
has, somehow or other, a blessing bestowed upon it, and particularly 
for human happiness; for, to us, every day, week, month, year, and 
age offer unlimited scope for affection. And therefore, Florinda, I 
will give you a song to set to music, and your harmony will prove 
it true ; and if you set it before spring, and sing it all the summer, 
you shall not have the ant's reproach to the grasshopper if you 
" dance in the winter." 



Oh, what is the time of the merry round year 
That is fittest and sweetest for Love ? — 

Ere sucks the bee, ere buds the tree, 

And primroses by two and three 

Faintly shine in the path of the lonely deer, 
Like the few stars of twilight above : 

When the blackbird and thrush, at early dawn, 

Prelude from leafy spray, — 
Amid dewy scents and blandishments, 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 45 

Like a choir attuning their instruments, 
Ere the curtain of nature aside be drawn 
For the concert the live-long day : 

In the green Spring-tide, all tender and bright 

When the sun sheds a kindlier gleam 
O'er velvet bank, that sweet flowers prank, — 
That have fresh dews and sunbeams drank — 
Softest and chaste, as enchanted light, 
In the visions of maiden's dream : 

When the streamlet flows on in pleasantest tune, 
Sparkling bright, on the verge of shade, 

Where fragrant rose, and golden cups close 

The bower of bliss in deep repose, — 

'Tis the pride of the year, it is June, it is June, 
With the riches of Love array'd. 

When the ripe fruits of autumn are ready to fall. 
And, all dropping, invite us to taste ; 

And purple sky, where gold streaks lie, 

Proclaim the reign of winter nigh, 

0, gather the sweet hoard of Love, ere all 
Be a wilderness wild and waste. 

0, the shelter of Love is then pleasant and dear. 

When stern Winter rages above, 
Or green Spring-tide, or Summer's pride, 
Or Autumn sere, when winds do chide, — 
Oh ! there is not a time of the merry round year 

That is not a season of Love. 



46 LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 

XXIV. 

(Bits mm 

(Written, at Millslade, on Mr. Eagles' s return from 
a tour to Aberystwith.) 

SJcetcher. We saw some fine otter-bounds ; coarse, wiry, strong 
animals, that would bear as well as give a bite and a tug under or 
above water. Our friend* was eloquent upon the subject, and 
described many an otter-hunt, and made the description more 
interesting by his calculation of the mischief these amphibious 
creatures do. "A single otter," said he, will consume a ton of fish 
in a year;" and, while speaking, he referred to a paper in his 
fishing-book. We observed one side of it denoted rhyme. " Ah," 
said he, when questioned, " for nearly forty years have I had many 
a fishing day with old Will Hill of Millslade, and, being at the 
lonely but comfortable little inn there the other day, my old haunt, 
I thought over the days past ; and I suppose a thankful heart, and 
no one to tell it out to, makes a happy man a rhymester, if not a 
happy rhymester, and so I made my trial. Here it is. I am as 
proud of dedicating my verse to poor old Will Hill, as Pindar his 
to Hiero. So here goes : — 

Old Will, with thee, 

In youth and glee, 
I've spent some sunny hours ; 

But now, I fear, 

The winter drear 
Of age upon us lowers. 

Yet still a dish 

We catch of fish, 
As well as some that brag ; 

No more we ply 

The treacherous fly — 
The brandling fills the bag. 



LYRICS FROM THE SKETCHER. 47 

Here in this glen, 

Apart from men, 
We lift our grateful hearts ; 

And feel the joy, 

Without alloy, 
That Nature wild imparts. 

From Providence, 

Our confidence, 
This boon we anglers crave, 

That we anon 

May angle on 
Safe to a peaceful grave. 



* The Rev. John Frederick Doveton, who died lately at 
Karsfield, aged 82, in a ripe old age, happy in the love of a 
numerous family, and the affection of many friends. Mr. Eagles 
loved and honoured this amiable, good, and religious man ; and it 
pleased him to print this song. His daughter, Mrs. Graham Clarke, 
set it to music ; and from the beauty of the air, and associations of 
the words, it has become a favorite song. 



*#* The Editor thinks it right to state, that he received from 
Mr. Eagles during his correspondence with him eight at least, he 
thinks more, of the foregoing Lyrics, before he introduced them 
into the Sketcher. 

J. M. G. 



SONNETS. 



The following Sonnets are selected from a variety- 
published by Mr. Eagles in his lifetime in " Black- 
wood's Magazine" ; from others remaining in manu- 
script, communicated to the Editor by his surviving 
friends ; and in his own possession. 

The Sonnet has been said by an eminent critic 
(James Montgomery) " to have been unworthily- 
depreciated in England, because it has been imper- 
fectly exhibited by English writers, partly from the 
difficulty of furnishing relays of rhyme to meet at 
the appointed stations, and partly from the Pro- 
crustean model, or exact attention on which the 
perfection of the Sonnet depends." 

It is true that the Italian Sonnets remarkably 
contrast with the English ; being distinguished even 
above other poetic compositions in that most delicate, 
voluble, and melodious tongue, by exquisite finish 



50 SONNETS. 

in diction, clear development of the one fine thought, 
and the musical succession of cadences carried through 
to the last syllable of the fourteen lines. 

In one of these selected Sonnets Mr. Eagles, in 
his communication of it to the Editor, has made a 
remark to the above effect, and regrets that he had 
not composed it to his satisfaction. 

The Editor also remembers being present at a 
conversation between the late Dr. Nott and Sir 
Charles Elton upon the subject of the superiority of 
the Italian over the English Sonnet; and whoever 
has read the translations of Petrarch's Sonnets by 
Dr. Nott, must perceive how much they were admired 
by him. Almost to the close of the Doctor's life he 
was adding to, altering, and endeavouring to improve 
his translations ; specimens of which are interspersed 
in his own copy now in the possession of the Editor. 

The composition of a Sonnet has also, by some 
critics, been considered an insignificant specimen of 
poetry, in which the youthful aspirant should only 
indulge. Our early poets, and many modern ones, 
have thought otherwise, and did not deem it 
derogatory to express their thoughts and feelings in 
fourteen lines, the legitimate length of the Sonnet, 



SONNETS. 51 

in which they could concentrate their imaginations 
upon a single subject, or delineate the character of 
an individual personage. Shakespere and Milton, 
Warton and Bowles, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and 
other distinguished poets, are examples. Among this 
galaxy of genius, the Sonnets of Mr. Eagles will not 
suffer by comparison. 

The earliest Sonnets which the Editor received 
from his friend were the following, accompanied with 
so pleasing an introduction, that he cannot refrain 
from inserting it. It is another instance of his love 
of Fairy-land. — Mr. Eagles for many years was in 
the habit of corresponding with the Editor under 
the name of Themaninthemoon, and generally 
addressed him as Domine Felix from his connexion 
with " Felix Farley's Journal/' 



A WREATH FOR CHRISTMAS. 



-Flowers, whose buds with early care 



I watch'd, and to the cheerful Sun did rear. 

Dryden. 

My worthy and esteemed friend, Domine Felix, may I intreat 
you to make a sealed packet of your prognostications of evil, which 
I nevertheless firmly believe, as coming from your Oracular 
Umbrilicus Terrse, will be to the letter accomplished. May I 
entreat you, I repeat it, to make a sealed packet of the same, and 
throw it into the cave of Trophonius, that you may, with your 
wonted face of hilarity, enjoy the festivities of the season. And 
now having, to my fancy, seated you with a few choice spirits, not 
vulgar spirits in pots or pipkins, nor any liquefied spirits whatever, 
though spirits of as choice humour as ever came forth like Asmo- 
deus from the glass bottle, called good fellows. Having thus seated 
you, would I leave you to the full enjoyment, ad extremum, Felix; 
nor do I think it necessary to lay an injunction on you to drink 
health and longevity to Themaninthemoon. For, I would direct 
my attention to my very numerous admirers and your fair readers, 
who are now most elegantly employed in decorating their albums 
with many a wreath, that shall make Old Winter smile, and melt 
his frozen mood to look at. I would not have you, therefore, 
sweet ladies, send to the common market for your posies, that is, 
cull them from every Annual, where they have indeed blown in 
prodigal beauty, but have lost, in the estimation of the delicate, 
somewhat of their simple and native charms from their incessant 
obtrusion to the eye of every gazer. I have therefore, once more 
taken much delight, proud of the destination of my offering, to 
gather some of my choicest flowrets from my winter garden in the 
sequestered valley of Fairy-land, where Flora herself delights to 
walk, in neither sun-light nor moon-light, but an illumination more 
pure than that which is transmitted from the visible and prying 
Orb of Day through earthly vapours, — in a light soft to the eye yet 
searching to the sense. The garden, I know, is delightful, though, 
alas, I may not have the skill to have made a good choice. There, 
however, were they gathered ; and if they have lost any of their 
beauty in my keeping, transplant them amid your purer leaves, and 
they may revivify. But if they chance to please you, let me assure 



SONNETS. 53 



you, there is a great variety in the same spot, which, having a per- 
petual ticket of admission, I shall be most happy to gather at your 
commands, and for your service. 

Now, Domine Felix, once more, let me address you, and in 
plainer language, and little gallantry, introduce to your notice a few 
Sonnets, that a portion of your columns may have the honour of 
being transferred to the x\lbums of your fair readers. 

(Communicated in 1833.) 



I. 

S?Stnpati)g. 

There was a soft enchantment in her eye, 

That charmed all it met ; and round it wrought 

A sympathetic incense of pure thought, 

As in some fane of loveliest sanctity — 

Such was the look of Angel from the high 

Emblazon'd Heaven new-lighted with glad feet, 

Blessing and blest, and bent on errand sweet ; 

Radiant with love, and beaming charity. 

Such was the light that shone o'er leaf and flower 

In sinless Eden, when that gentlest pair, 

(In their Creator's image planted there) 

Together walked, or sat in sylvan bower ; 

Or in the moon's mild lustre wond'ring stood ; 

And their great Maker " saw that all was good." 



II. 

TOme antr ©bltbton. 

Old Time sat in a glacier's frozen cave, 
Teaching his daughter, stern Oblivion, 
The World's large History, deeds by Heroes done, 



54 SONNETS. 

The pride of Kings ; and much of him who gave 

Whole realms to furnish one vain Queen a robe. — 

" Give me such royal dower/" Oblivion cried. — 

"I will," quoth Time, "speed with me o'er the globe." — 

They sped, and cities crumbled 'neath their stride, — 

The Pyramids alone stood firm, and staid 

Their menaces, — aghast stood Time awhile — 

Oblivion forward rush'd, and taunting said, 

" Stand Monuments of me" — and touched each pile, 

Each scroll, each sculptured character, and name, 

And withered up the records of their fame. 



III. 

Ww ^oef s ®mm to tfje &tatut of legmen. 

Hymen, thou art depicted with a torch, 

Whose two-fold flames shoot upwards, and then turn 
Inwards, as they would each the other scorch, — 

Emblem of hearts that bicker as they burn — 
Thou'rt like some vengeful Angel with his rod 

Of fire, or with the flaming sword that drove 
Erom Eden love. — So Poets feigned the God 

Hermes, round whose caduceus spiteful strove 
Two serpents intertwined, — their swoFn throats crammed 

With venom, ever at each other hiss— 
With such dire wand the spirits of the damn'd 

Did Hermes downward urge from scenes of bliss. — 
Hymen* avert the omen of my verse, 
And change this state for better, not for worse ! 



SONNETS. 55 

IV. 

Co Minter. 

Winter, a surly fashion, thankless, rude, 

Misnomers thee a heartless niggard, Time's 
Stern Reckoner, chill'd with maxims harsh and crude ; 

To me, thou'rt ushered in with merry chimes — 
Thou lightest blazing hearths in antient Hall — 

And biddest guests, and wakest jocund laugh — 
Thou openest wide to the poor Prodigal 

Thy parent-arms, and kilFst the fatted calf — 
Thy keen breath kindly spares the aged thorn. — 

So some old healthy Shepherd on a rock, 
Calls with the blast of his unpolished horn, 

To better fare, and warmer fold, his flock : 
Thou blowest, like old Boatswain out at sea, 
Piping all hands to mirth and jollity. 



V. 

<®n a Bull spring. 

And is this Spring ! that frenzied Poets feign, 
And whimpering Lovers in their sickly rhyme 
(The privilege of Pools) — sweet Beauty's reign ? 
Yea, rather seemeth it the grave of Time, 
Around whose rusty monument forlorn, 
Scant flowers and buds that mock earth's penury 
Do bloom, like jewels set in hideous scorn 
On the scatlfd brow of bold Antiquity. 



56 SONNETS. 

— So on the Drunkard's pale and debauched skin 
Blossoms the Original Sin, like the foul mark 
On Cain, the murderer. So on Beldame's chin 
Sprouts vegetation through the wrinkled bark ; 
And when th'old Hag affects to smile and sing, 
She only is more ghastly. — This is Spring. 



VI. 

'STfie ©lofo-toorm. 

gem ! more precious than the thrice-tried ore 
And jewels that the cavern' d treasures hold, 
(For what rare diamond ere did life enfold ?) 

Thee at her bridal hour the chaste Earth wore 

When iEther, her proud bridegroom, came, and o'er 
Heaven's archway spread his mantle,gemm'd with gold 
Of stars in all their glory manifold, — 

Yet deem'd Earth's bosom still adorned more. 

They call thee worm — thy love ungently name, 
Whilst thou, like Hero, lightest to thy nook 

Some bold Leander with thy constant flame, 
Whose Hellespont may be this running brook. 

let the wise man- worm his pride abjure, 
And his own love be half as bright and pure. 



VII. 

Cfie Concert. 

Last eve, a Concert gave me such high pleasure 
As I can ill express — not as you think 
In painted Hall — where painted warblers sink 



SONNETS. 57 

In ecstasy of some long-dying measure, 
Whose silly words bequeath no sense to treasure ; 
But on a primrose bank, and on the brink 
Of a sweet streamlet, whence the pure leaves drink 
Their freshness, lying there in endless leisure. 

I felt the boughs overshadow me — and closed 

Mine eyes — and the quick Spirits that haunt the stream, 
Each with his lyre upon my lids repos'd — 
Then floating gently broke into my dream — 
Whence in a bark, moor'd by a golden strand, 
We sailed right merrily to Fairy-land. 



VIII. 

€§z 2tet Mam-Sbtfiool. 

Nature, best Schoolmistress, I love the book 
Thou spreadest in the fields, when children lie 

Round thee, beneath the blessing of the sky. 

Thou biddest some on thy bright pictures look — 

For some thou dost attune the play-mate brook ; 
For thy sole Ushers are the ear and eye, 
That give to growing hearts their due supply, 
And cull sweet tastes from every silvan nook. 

Dismiss thy Infant-school, good Mistress Starch ; 
Absolve nor child nor parent from the ties 
That bind with love and duty. Strut and march, 
And sing-song knowledge will not make them wise. 
Her scholars litttle know, but love and wonder more- 
Nature abhors thy mimic worthless store. 



58 SONNETS. 

IX. 

p^annong. 

would'st thou give me Music, let it be 

Now low and soft, in undulating motion, 
Now swelling, now subsiding like the Ocean, 
And, like it, wild or gentle, ever free — 
But add no words — for simple melody 
Flows to my heart like an enchanted potion 
From Fairy hand — that would expel from me 
In potency of Love all earthly notion. 

language is not for Spirits of the Air, 

That sing as they awake. They hide themselves 

From speech and unclosed eyes — wouldst thou repair 
To their loved haunts — the woods — the rocky shelves— 

They to thy lute, beside the mountain stream, 

Will come to thee in Music and in Dream. 



X. 

Jpatfter an& §bon. 

check not, thoughtless Parent, Childhood's tear ; 
Let him pour out the sorrows of his breast, 
And know that thou, too, feelest them, and best. 
Too soon come iron days, and thoughts that sear 
Young Virtue such as his ; the Child revere — 



SONNETS. 59 

That, while his limbs enlarge with man imprest, 
His little heart grow freely with the rest, 
Nor learn alone one coward lesson — Fear. 

Open thy heart to me, ingenuous boy ! 

And know by thine own tears what 'tis to weep, 
By thine own mirth how blessed to enjoy ; 

Truth part thy lips, nor niggard Caution keep. 
Open thy heart — no narrow door for Sin, 
But wide, "that all the Virtues may rush in." 



XI. 

^fje 3Srook— €fa Wimxs of Consolation. 

Ah ! well do I remember thee, sweet Brook, 
How on thy margin once I did complain, 
When Grief was at my heart, and in my brain ; 

How thou didst pour thy song, that gently shook 
The curious boughs that into thee did look ; 
That sometimes Pity 'twas — sometimes 'twas Pain, 
And now 'twas changed to prattling sport again ; 
Now low, like evening hymn from Holy book. 

That Grief has left no trace — thy banks T tread — 
And hear those tones that rise through all thy way, 

Like Memory's Music from enchanted bed. 
So when some gusty Storm hath passed away, 
This little Flower uplifts its humbled head, 
In thankful wonder at thy water's play, 



60 



SONNETS. 



XII. 

Cfje Hober's iWoonltgfit. 

I saw a Lover — on his upraised brow 

The Midnight Moon had in sweet token lighted. 

Then knew he that his absent Love, his plighted, 
Was present — in her thought and in her vow. 
Blest Creatures ! whom night-wandering Angels bow 

To bless, and leave the low sunk world benighted : 
Love knows no Time — for it is ever — Now ! 
Love knows no space — for hearts must live united ! 

Blest Creatures ye ! for Nature's self doth plot 
Your communing, and levels this terrene, 
And prostrates all it holds, as it were not ; 
And lifts her lamp up in the sky serene., 
That both might gaze upon one Heavenly spot, 
And Love alone might live and breathe between. 



XIII. 



Soft be thy step ! Night, the meek mother, lies 
In the deep bosom of the silent wood, 
Around her nestled all the feathered brood ; 
The sainted stars, that sentinel the skies, 
Take watchword from the River Mysteries 



SONNETS. 61 

(Whose streamlets skirt this silvan neighbourhood, 
Tuning their music to their dreamiest mood), 
To shed their influence on her sleeping eyes. 

So some pale Abbess, in her shadowed cell — 
While all around her the pure sisters rest — 

Blends in her dreams the organ's distant swell 
And bright-eyed Angels hovering o'er her breast. 

Here Heavenly Peace, and Peace on Earth combine — 

Night be thy pillow too, their guarded shrine. 



XIV. 

Mnftg of art. 

Say what is Art ? Th' acquirement of a sense 

Discoverable, dormant, incomplete — 

Poetry, Painting, Music ; do they cheat 

The understanding with false ravishments 

Of things that are not ? No : when man invents 

He but discovers ; and, with favoured feet, 

Walks privileged where Angels pass and meet — 

And bringeth back, as 'twere, the rudiments 

Of their high language, that in perfect state 

Of Being transformed celestial shall be ours ; 

With thorough knowledge to communicate, 

Though there were neither Eye nor Ear. O Powers 

Illimitable ! — 'tis but the outer hem 

Of God's great mantle our poor stars do gem. 



62 SONNETS. 

XV. 

®i)z pcture. 

A horrid wood of unknown trees, that throw 
An awful foliage, snakes about whose rind, 
Festoon' d in hideous idleness did wind, 

And swing the black green masses to and fro ; 

A river — none knew whence or where — did flow 
Mysterious through ; clouds, swoln and lurid shin'd, 
Above, like freighted ships, waiting a wind ; 

And moans were heard, like some half-utter'd woe ; 
And shawdowy monsters glided by, whose yell 

Shook terribly th' unfathomM wilderness, — 
Where ! The Great Maker, lies invisible 

And undiscovered worlds doth yet impress 

On thought, Creation's mirror, wherein do dwell 

His unattained wonders numberless. 



XVI. 

^o tfie €iti?m% of Bristol. 

Behold, how high, ye Citizens, I soar, 

When on my HippogrifF I girth the saddle !- 
From the pure air, to see you stir and paddle 

In that poor, dirty pool, doth vex me sore. 

Would that ! as Pegasus struck Hippocrene 
From the hard rock of Heliconian Hill 
Whence flow'd poetic streams in many a rill, 



SONNETS. 63 

I, too, could, lighting down on College Green 
Or Brandon, strike with Hippogriffian hoof 

TV unyielding earth, and ope the golden Fount 
Of Verse, whose taste would make your spirits mount 
Up to the stars that spangle Heaven's high roof! — 
And it could sacred be from lock and chain, 
That all might freely drink what all could never drain. 

*** This Sonnet is not written well, the lines should have 
the proper Sonnet spaces. — J.E. 



XVII. 



jtonnet to tijc JHan* tijat toolt Jjtg fltgl)t from Glffton 
abo&e tfje Want's Pfole to Setgi) 22aoot)g. 

I mark'd thee, fugitive, thy meteor flight 

Crossing the Line — thou'rt he that put a girth 
In forty minutes round about the Earth -, 
Thou'rt Peter Schlemil, that sinumbran wight, 
Shot down from Cynthia's Orb, arm'd with a writ 
Of Habeas Corpus for Themaninthemoon, 
Constable, Bailiff, Catchpole, and Poltroon ; 
But he escap'd thy clutch where he did sit 
And muse sublunar things in Giant's Hole, 
And saw thee, like a spider, stretch thy line, 
Where thou did'st surely think to nab him thine 
In those sweet haunts, where thou didst deem he stole, 
Of " pleasant Leigh," while Cynthia, far below, 
To catch him up, shot down her lunar bow. 
* Courtney. 



64 SONNETS. 

XVIII. 

Jpaitfi ant! ^obe. 

When Noah entered in the blessed Ark, 
And with him, of all creatures two and two 
Twin Graces, Trust and Love their radiance threw 

Around that Home — a solitary mark 

Of Mercy, 'mid the Deluge deep and dark, 
Wrath Universal, that Creation slew 

Thus thro' the stormy winds, the Lunar bark 
Shines peaceful, floating in her sea of blue, 

As He in God, so did in him confide 

Within that Safety- Ark each living thing — 

So the sweet Dove, sent forth, returned and tried 
Again, the Olive-branch of Peace to bring — 

Then sped away, trusting that Love would guide 

To her, her Mate with an unerring wing. 



XIX. 



Angel Liberty ! where art thou fled ? 
Must Tyrant Multitude or Tyrant King 
Usurp thy Reign ; and oh ! the meaner thing, 

Base Faction, to the earth thy bounties tread, 
And to the Winds thy golden Harvests fling. 



SONNETS. 

Must Man be Tyrant to himself — the head 

Contending with the heart — the heart to wring- 
And Passion ever sway in Virtue's stead. 

Oh ! that I had the pinions of a Dove, 
With inspiration of thy holy breath 

Sweet Liberty, to reach that Best — where Love 
Fix'd in thy perfect law, aye, governeth — 

For thou art not of Earth, but Heaven above — 
And here thy faithful Minister — is Death. 



65 



XX. 

Jfflusfc. 



Within her mother's arms my infant lay, 
And death fast settling on her aspect mild, 
Like marble innocence. — The night was wild, 

And the winds shook the casement with affray, 

As they were Fiends, impatient for their prey, 
And quarrelPd for my poor departing child. — ■ 
Again they shook — In death my infant smil'd, 

And the winds howl'd into the night away. 

I rose in madness, for the Fiends methought 

Had ta'en her — and I prayed — how vain my fears ; 

Some spirit whispered — " Sounds with terror fraught 
Are but delusions human fancy hears ; 

Heaven's love is in all sounds, nor is there aught 
But blessed Music to immortal ears." 



66 SONNETS. 

XXI. 

Consolation. 

I was in Misery ; Reason to me came 

And talked most erudite, till my ears rang 

With wisdom, tho' not such as Siren sang ; 
For there were admonitions, and more blame. 

I was in misery still. In Friendship's name 
Then Sympathy, with comforts, to me sprang — 

Wept, pitied me — did the World's ills proclaim, 
As if the Catalogue would soothe one pang ! 
Away, away, I cried, another's woes 

Increase, not lessen mine. Then was I wild, 
And call'd on Death to strike ; but Hope arose, 

And stay'd his arm — then turn'd with aspect mild — 
" If not on Earth/' quoth she, " there is repose." 

" There is in Heaven" — I cried, look'd up, and smiled. 



XXII. 

ISeati). 



Time was that Death and I were bitterest foes, 
And then I pictured him with noiseless feet, 
Threading the busy crowds from street to street, 

While his fell finger touch'd and thinn'd their rows, 

And still the waves of Life did round him close. 
And then the Tyrant left his wonted beat, 
Stealing 'mong children at their play, unmeet 

For his strong grasp, and chill'd their vernal rose. 



SONNETS. 67 

But now methinks a kinder form lie takes — 

The good Physician bearing anodyne 
For aching hearts, and oft his glass he shakes 

To speed life's woes, that with the sands combine ; 
Now like a gentle friend, my pillow makes, 

And, with soft pressure, lays his hand in mine. 



XXIII. 

fCJe 33tr&. 

It was a Sunny Eve, and in a Bower 

There was a Bird put forth his carol sweet 

To the soft air ; and glistening leaves did meet 

And bend around him to the magic power. — 

And there were Two, that, hand in hand, that hour — 
That happy hour— passed by with lingering feet, 
And, loitering, look'd into that green retreat. 

Change ! why art thou True Love's only dower ? 

Dead is the Bird ; the leaves that interposed 

Their golden light lie o'er him — they too are dead ; 

And of The Two, the eyes of One are closed — 
And her dear feet, that did in sunshine tread, 

Upraised, and cold, and bare, in darkness lie. 

that the lonely Wanderer, too, could die ! 



68 



SONNETS. 



XXIV. 

In JWtmoriatt), 

O sacred dust of hoar Antiquitie, 

That takest of the day no hue, but keepest 
The grey of silence, in the which thou sleepest ; 

Or in repose, like sleep, the mystery 

Of Death's no dying, watching Eternity ; 

Dim shades of years in aisles sepulchral heapest, 
And in lone nights in the Moon's paleness steepest 

The love-writ records of Mortalitie. 

Likest to, if thou art not, that within 
Colourless, stainless, unsubstantial dust, 

Whose escaped spirits, who strove high grace to win, 
Come sainted ghosts to touch thy hallow' d rust ; 

Whereas the reverent twilight creepeth in, 
On the memorials of the pure and just. 
(Written March 8, 1855.) 



XXV. 

The little bark, upon the waters lying ; 
The great Leviathans, that therein take 
Pastime, and trust it not ; the Birds, that make 

Their nests in cavern' d cliffs and crags, outflying 

O'er the billowy surge, and wildly crying ; 

The beasts, that with their roar the forests shake, 
And keep the fiends of night all broad awake 

The worn winds among lonely islands dying. 



SONNETS. 69 

These are the Poet's visions, as he looks 

Forth from his curtained casement, when long nights 

Shut out the world, all save the moonlit brooks 
And valley twinkling with domestic lights. 

Then thanks he God, that here his lot is cast 

In the soft bosom of a world so vast. 



The two following Sonnets were translated from the Italian 
of Delia Casa by Mr. Eagles, and sent to the Editor 
about 1827 :— 

XXVI. 

^uesta Ftta Jftortal* 

This mortal life, that in a little hour 
Of shadow passes by, hath left obscure, 
Till now, that better part of me, and pure 
Deep shrouded in the mists that round it lower. 
Now I behold, great God, in fruit and flower, 
In winter's cold, and the rich garniture 
That summer yields, thy mercies ever sure, 
And manifold thy Measure, Grace, and Power. 
This the pure air, this the clear light of day, 
That to our eyes unfold this earth, the Ball 
Which from its dark abyss thou badst expand, 
All that Heav'n covers once in Chaos lay; — 
Thou didst divide the darkness with thy hand,- — 
Sun, Moon, and Stars shone forth, thy fingers made 
them all. 



70 SONNETS. 

XXVII. 

© Bote srfba ombrosa. 

Dear shady wood, my solitary friend, 

To whom I have unbosomed many a thought 
Weary and sad, what change in thee is wrought ? 

Winter, with horrid grasp, as it would rend, 

Has shook thy verdant top, and frosts descend, 
And thy umbrageous antient locks have caught, 
As mine — and stead of vermeil flowrets, nought 

But snows along thy sunny glades extend. 

In this short darkling melancholy hour 
Wandering I muse, how Age's frosts begin 

My spirits to seize, and every limb enfold, 
Till all without is chill and all within ; 

But far more merciless my winters lower, 

Bringing me nights more long, more drear and cold. 



XXVIII. 



The little leaves, sparkling at dewy morn, 
Put forth from modest hedge-row into light, 
That, when the world is up, shrink back from sight 

To the green quiet of some humble thorn, 

Delight me more than fields of golden corn, 

And forests flushed in evening's gorgeous might ; 
So the pure eyes of Innocence, as bright, 

Beam on the world, they dare not to adorn. 



SONNETS. 71 

And their celestial dawning none can tell, 
But th* incorrupt and early worshipper. 

They, to whom Nature shines not legible 

In simple things, who to their hearts transfer 

No virtue, — like th' Egyptians, cannot spell 
What their Priest writ in sacred character. 



XXIX. 

a 3Bag 3famembm&. 

Hence, Solitude ! I would with life invest, 
And make companion of a weed, a flower, 
To banish thee — late in thine inmost bower, 

A solemn wood, I laid me down to rest, 

Where, like a jewel on the brown Earth's breast, 
Or the mild star at Evening's silent hour, 
A primrose-tuft shone with a lustrous power, 

Amid the twilight of that gloom unblest. 

I had not converse held with thee, poor weed, 
Had Laura met me there — her gentle feet 

Charm wheresoever they move ; and in my creed 
Of Love, the loneliest spot wherein we meet 

Is Fairy-land — and I the Guardian Knight 

Endowed with purest thought, and joy, and dauntless 
might. 



72 SONNETS. 

XXX. 

<S3eautg. 

what is Beauty ? Poets say a flower — 
A Flower ! It fades e'en in the scented air 
It perfumes. — Beauty to the mind's eye fair 

Blooms ever with its own immortal dower. 

Sweet Purity instinct with heavenly power : 
'Twas thine, Alcestes,— - pattern of virtue rare, 
And thine, chaste Lady, in the charmed chair ;* 

It aw'd the Hon in sweet Una's bower. 

beauty is not in the rosy cheek, 

Nor doth in dimple, nor strange lustre lie, 

But in the patient look, the firm, yet meek, 
(Charmed from the notice of all vulgar eye) 

It enters the soul's depth, and wins assent, 

Like a blest Angel on sure mission sent. 
* Vide "Conras." 



XXXI. 

Hife. 



Oh ! there are passages of life that lie, 
Each like a bright Oasis in the heart, 
The wilderness of years, — standing apart 

From noted action, daily History ; 

Unfelt, unseen, save by the inward eye, 
That with its sudden vision, makes to start 
Him whose they are, e'en in the very mart 

Of men, that wonder at his ecstacy. 



SONNETS. 73 

We are of two-fold spirits, and the one 
Loves, like the under current of the sea 

Invisible, a diverse course to run ; 
The other, with necessity its plea, 

Commands us outwardly. 'Tis thus they give 

A World in which we walk, a World in which we live. 

(November, 1836.) 



XXXII. 



Come, living Thoughts, envelope me around 
With your voluminous Being — clear away 
(For ye are Spirits creative, and ye may) 
With your ethereal presence this dark ground 
Beneath, and my unburthen'd feet surround 
With th' unfelt pavement of your golden way, 
T' ascend from out the darkness of Earth's day, 
That to the mind's large kingdom we may bound 
To reign, if " perfect will and knowledge be" 

To reign — and aught may reign but God above, 
Where life, in spiritual conception free, 

Sees all is Beauty- — and feels all is Love. 
And ministering Thoughts ye come more bright 
Than wings of Angels glistening in their flight. 

(December, 1837.) 



74 SONNETS. 

XXXIII. 

Qfynmidm. 

Hark ! how the feather d songster Chanticleer, 

As Rowley calls him, winds his bugle horn — 
And, at his cheerful bidding, disappear 

The shades of night, and the forth-stepping morn 
Lifts up her veil before her glistening face, 

To bless the wakened world with gladsome mirth. 
So I, when darkening gloom overspread the race 

Of care-worn things that creep on this dull earth, 
Raised high my voice, and vanished are the clouds 

'Twixt us and Cynthia's shining orb of night, 
That shot new lustre on the groveling crowds. — 

As the night-wand'ring ship her pilot light 
Spreads to the floundering monsters round her lee, 
And sheds short radiance o'er the ghastly sea. 

(Autographed) 

Themaninthemoon. 



*£* There are numerous other Sonnets composed 
by Mr. Eagles, equal in every respect to the fore- 
going ; the chief beauty of which consists in their 
construction upon the Miltonic model, in the piety of 
their sentiments, and the heaven-ward aspirations of 
their concluding lines. There are others upon 
political subjects, personal, and ironical ; but, as it 
is wished this " Garland of Roses " should flourish 
without a Thorn, they are purposely omitted. 



CARMINA LUSORIA 

Sonrai gangs anil f lumi f rai 



The Miscellaneous Poems of Mr. Eagles are so 
many and various, that to make a selection from 
them suited to the compass of a Garland requires no 
slight discrimination. The Editor, therefore, is glad 
to avail himself of the judgment of some of Mr. 
Eagles's relations and friends. In their possession 
are some of his sweetest poems on the affections, too 
precious and too closely entwined in their hearts to 
allow of their being made public. It is the same 
with others, in which his regard for his friends must 
be held equally private and sacred. Were it not so, 
these poems would disclose a mind and heart over- 
flowing with all the humanities which dignify our 
nature, and unite us in bonds of love and affection 
for each other. Mr. Eagles was possessed of such a 
true poetic genius, or, as it has been called, creative 
literature — " the record of the best and happiest 



76 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

moments of the best and happiest minds" — that, 
whether it was love for the person, or the scenes of 
nature, animate or inanimate, whenever they took 
possession of his mind and memory, he poured forth 
his feelings with truth and sensibility io the most 
fascinatiug strains of poetic conception. It was with 
the same fertility of invention that he could change his 
subject from grave to the gay, from the political to 
the ironical. None but those who were intimately 
acquainted with his habits and thoughts can con- 
ceive how spontaneously, and with what rapidity, he 
would compose; so much so, that he seldom had to 
correct or review his first thoughts. 



CARMINA LUSORIA, 



I. 

(Written for the air of " Ah I Maiden, gardez vous 
a peculiar measure.) 

Sweet grew the Rose, where waters flowing, 
Murmur in gentleness day by day ; 
And branches round 
Bent to the sound, 
As if soft winds were blowing. 
O, the sweet Rose, 
In blest repose, 
Tear, tear it not away. 

Fair blooms the maiden in her fragrant bower, 
Lovely her gentle thoughts beam in her eyes ; 
And lovers bow 
And breathe the vow. 
0, she is the Rose, sweet flower — 

The World's bright gem ; 
Touch not the stem 
Too roughly, or it dies. 



78 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

Sweet Rose, thy leaves above the stream were glowing ; 
Smoothly it pass'd, and tho' its voice was sweet, 
The surface bright 
With charmed light, 
O'er dangers deep was flowing. 
Maiden, in thee 
The Rose T see, 
Thy reign as fair and fleet. 



II. 

Song. 

f Words written for Music.) 

0, we will to the woods again, 

And hear the sweet birds sing ; 
For the Blackbird heralds morn and eve— 

" Come forth, come forth, 'tis spring." 

Now every shrub puts on its best, 

For 'tis the month of May — 
Like to a smiling maid at early dawn 

That dons her best array. 

Now Trees put on their greenwood shade, 

That under we may lie ; 
And their roots stretch to the stream to catch 

Its music passing by. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 79 

Now flowers spring up on mossy banks, 

Now green is every nook ; 
Nor living things, nor aught therein, 

But bending roses look. 

Now waking things rise from the earth 

From their long winter bed, 
With Jewell' d coats and golden wing, 

That sparkling radiance shed. 

Come Love, thine ear sweet sounds shall hear 

Thine eyes sweet sights shall see, 
And thou shall gaze on every thing 

But I, on only thee. 



III. 



Nor flower that's fairest, 

Nor music that's rarest, 
Nor soft breath of Spring that o'er sweetbriar blows ; 

Believe me, my dearest, 

Not all that thou nearest 
When Nightingales sing at the sweet evening's close, 

Can charm me to stay, Love, 

When thou art away, Love, 
For thou, my dear Mary, art sweeter than those. 



80 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

Thee still would I follow- 
Fleet, fleet as the swallow, 

That flies to her Summer o'er deep ocean's foam, 
O'er seas dark and dreary, 
With wing that is weary, 

Yet still the fond mate leads the way they should roam; 
Till come to their rest, Love, 
They make them one nest, Love, 

And the sunshine of Summer still blesses their Home. 



IV. 

Hobe. 



0, what is Love ! what Love ! 

Not such as it doth seem 
To fever' d Passion's eye, 

A vision — faithless dream — 
Or childhood's painted bark 

On passing stream. 

Soon fades the bark away, 
And with the current flies ; — 

The unsubstantial dream 
Lives not in mid-day skies ; 

But Love, eternal Love, 
Nor fades, nor dies. 

Care may consume the heart 

With ever-eating rust ; 
Our forms — how strong, how fair, 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 81 

How lov'd — lie dust to dust ; 
But even thence, shall Love 
Rise with new trust. 

Love, kindled in the soul, 

Grows with it here — above 
To rise with it all pure 

As wing of sainted dove, 
Eternal as the Heavens, 

Or 'tis not Love. 



V. 



Home ! thou art in every place, 
O'er all the boundless earth — 

The centre of eternal space, 
Where'er thou hast thy birth. 

They say " a thousand miles from Home/' 

As from the dearest thing 
That links our souls, the more we roam, 

The more to it we cling. 

What though ten thousand miles we run, 

And add ten thousand more, 
There is a Home — 'tis like the sun 

That travels still before. 



82 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

Though not for us — though all be strange ; 

Yet fondest hearts there be, 
In all the world's unmeasured range, 

No home elsewhere can see. 

O'er peopled realms, or deserts vast, 
There still, One Voice is heard — 

'Tis Home — Home there her lot hath cast 
Of man, of beast, or bird. 

Within the forest's deepest shade, 
Ten thousand depths around — 

Home for each living thing is made 
That creepeth on the ground ! 

Where life hath neither bed nor lair, 

In silence and in gloom, 
Home finds the lonely flow'ret there, 

The worm within the tomb. 

Home, Home — it is eternal love — 
His presence, and His praise — 

O'er all around, below, above, 
Creation's boundless ways — 

E'en in the poor, defiled heart, 

The present Home of Sin, 
God said, Let wickedness depart, 

And We will dwell therein. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 83 

Blest Spirit^ thou that Home prepare, 

Do thou make clean, secure, 
Lest Love should seek his dwelling there, 

His Home, nor find it pure. 

Thou, when this Earthly Home shall fall, 

As built on erring sands — 
Me to that Heavenly Mansion call, 

Prepared, not made with hands. 

That Home of love, and joy, and peace, 

No sorrow in the breast — 
From troubling where the wicked cease, 

And where the weary rest. 

(1833.) 



VI. 

%ih. 

It seemeth but the other day — 

The other day that I was born — 
And childhood came — life's ruddy morn 
Soon passed away. 

It seemeth but the other day, 

Came schoolboy cares, of verb and noun- 
And idle sport, stern master's frown — 
They passed away. 



84 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

It seemeth but a day, an hour, 

Since youth was mine, all fresh and young, 
With nerve, and heart, and forward tongue — 
Full pert the flower. 

It seemeth but a day, since I, 

Scarce tamed before, to beauty knelt, 
And sighM, and swore, and madly felt 
Love's agony. 

It seemeth scarce a day, e'en now, 

With firmer step I walk'd, the man, 
And proudly spoke ; and thought, and plan 
Shook from my brow. 

How like a thief of night, to-day 
Upon that yesterday stole in — 
On that again Life's shades begin 
In twilight grey. 

To-morrow — is it in our grasp ? — 

This night may death shut up our age, 
And close our book of pilgrimage 
With iron clasp. 

Life is but the souFs infant state, 

Where ripens its eternal seed 
For bitter dole, or heavenly meed 
Regenerate. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 85 

Death — Death is conquered, and the grave 

The summoned dead to Life shall yield — 
When angels reap thy harvest field, 
Lord, who shall save ? 

Redeemer, thou ; Thine was the strife, 
The victory — with thy Grace renew 
The inner man — set in my view 
Eternal Life. 

That infant child, and youth, and man, 

Baptized, and cleansed from stain of Sin, 
By Faith in Thee, I come within 
Thy Mercy's plan. 



VII. 

€an 1 jporget. 

Can I forget, where every nook 
Recalls thy sweet, thy gentle look, 
Where e'en the music of the brook 

Still bids me love thee dearer ? 
Where all I hear and all I see — 
The song of birds, the flower, the tree, 
Bear something to my heart of thee, 

And bring thy image nearer. 



86 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

If, wandering on, the grove I reach, 
Thy name is carved on every beech ; 
Thy name oft uttered in my speech 

Betrays the unconscious lover. 
I try o'er maxims sage to pore, 
Yet turn the unheeded pages o'er, 
And oft in leaf of ancient lore 

Thy name alone discover. 

What, though I seek the joyous throng, 
Thoughts that to thee alone belong 
Are wakened up by chaunt, by song, 

I think of thee — thee only ! 
In scenes of mirth I dare not stay, 
I feel the more thou art away ; 
Fly from the vacant and the gay 

To silent shades and lonely. 

So stays awhile the stricken deer 
On sunny bank, by fountain clear, 
With watchful eye, and startled ear, 

Then bounds she knows not whither. 
Shunned by the gayer herd, dismayed, 
She flies the bright, the sunny glade, 
And plungest into deepest shade, 

And bears her anguish with her. 

(Halberton, 1833.) 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 87 

VIII. 

Ww ^rognss of Hobe, 

Oh ! what is the time of the merry year 
That we should begin to Love, my Dear, — 
In the early day, when scarce 'tis Spring, 
And there's not a leaf on the budding tree, 
And the earth is prank't but here and there, 
With flow'rets by one, by two, by three, — 
Like the faint gems fairy-feet do leave, 
Or the stars that rarely come out at eve. 

When the blackbird and thrush at peep of dawn 

Prelude in notes so finely drawn, 

As leaders of the vocal choir, 

That awhile are attuning their instruments, 

E're Nature her Curtain draws aside 

From the scene her Bower of Bliss presents, 

E're in concert full from leaf and spray, 

The Choristers chaunt the live-long day. 

When the blossom of pink and white is seen 

To peep from its bed of tender green, 

And over the fresh and velvet bank 

The sun has shed a kindlier gleam, — 

Soft and chaste as enchanted light 

That paints the vision in maiden's dream ; 

Then Love (if gentle indeed thou art) 

Should break from the bud in thy gentle heart. 



88 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

When the streamlet flies from the sunny glade, 
And sparkles awhile on the verge of shade ; 
Then quietly steals 'mid mossy cells, 
Where the glassy mirror within doth hold 
The dark repose of the secret bower, 
And the bright green leaves are as lucid gold; — 
'Tis June, 'tis June — the pride of the year, 
And "'tis time to be rich in Love, my Dear. 

When the roses of Summer shall fade, and yield 
To mellow fruits of tree and of field, 
That, rich and ripe as thy ruby lip, 
Ask and invite us to taste and kiss; — 
'Tis time, 'tis time for Lovers to reap ; 
For, Oh ! the ripe fruit of Love is Bliss. 
And the yellow ground, and the purple sky, 
Tell us that Winter approacheth nigh. 

And when Winter his frosts around shall fling, 
Oh ! Love it is then a precious thing, — 
For it lights up a Palace of rare delight ; 
It awakens a glow in the joyous breast. — 
The silken Couch, the Lyre, and Song — 
Whose Music shall make e'en bliss more blest ; 
And when the wild winds shall rave above, 
We're lock'd in each others arms, my Love. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. &\ 

IX. 

^pjjgrs. 

All around was dark in mist, 

But a star shone bright 

In the lonely night, 
And the bosom of ocean kiss'd — 
A favoured spot, and the Zephyrs there 
Came to sport in the waters fair. 

CHORUS. 

Spirits, away — your wings renew 
With healing balm in the briny dew. 

The dolphins float around, 

And a circle track 

With uplifted back, 
Like the stones upon Druid ground, 
That lie upon Carnac's dreary plain, — 
So motionless they in the misty main. 

CHORUS. 

Spirits, away — your wings renew 
With healing balm from the briny dew. 

1st Spirit. Sister spirit, where hast been ? 

2nd Spirit. Over the sands 

Of burning lands, 
From gardens fresh and green ; 
To fan the fever' d cheek to rent 
Of a child on its fainting mother's breast. 



90 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

CHORUS. 

Sister spirits, your wings renew 
With healing balm of the briny dew. 

1st Spirit. And thou, say, sister, where? 

3rd Spirit. Where fountains play, 
With silvery spray, 
To the sun and the scented air ; 
And sweet birds sing, and leaf and flower 
Bend to the music in lady's bower. 

CHORUS. 

Sister spirits, your wings renew 
With healing balm of the briny dew. 

4th Spirit. And I where blood was spilt — 

And as I fanned 

The murderer's hand, 
It gave him a pang of guilt, 
For he saw his brother lie cold in death, 
And could not feel that reviving breath. 

CHORUS. 

Sister spirits, your wings renew 
With healing balm of the briny dew. 

5th Spirit. And I my pastime took 

In wake of a ship 

That her bows did dip, 
And the salt spray from her shook. 
Merrily danced the ship along 
With flaunting colours, and seaman's song. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 91 

CHORUS. 

Sister spirits, your wings renew 
With healing balm of the briny dew. 

1st Spirit. Dolphins, away — be free, 
For I hear the swell 
Of the Sea-God's shell, 
That calls up the sleeping sea. 
Alas ! the joy on that fated deck — 
Weeping, and wailing, and prayer-and wreck S 

CHORUS. 

Sisters, away — the briny dew 

No more may with healing your wings renew. 



X. 

Wbz Retreat. 

O, 'tis a charmed spot of rest, 

Where unseen Spirits are, 
That enter in the troubled breast, 

And steal away its care, 
And bid the demons of the heart — 
The restless, anxious thoughts, depart. 

And see the river deep, and fast 

It seems to bear along ; 
Our evil passions to it cast, 

Still turbulent and strong ; 
And there, as in their prison set, 
They whirl, and foam, and toil, and fret. 



92 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

While peaceful pleasure upward springs, 

As in a place secure — 
That gentlest Spirits fan with wings. 

And keep it green and pure ; 
And where they come, and where retreat 
They leave the sunshine of their feet. 

0, mine be the sequester'd nook 
From the world's troubles free ; 

Where is no brawling but the brook, 
No murmur but the sea ; 

Where so serenely bright the glow, 

That Angels e'en might come and go. 

(Halberton, March, 1834.) 



XI. 

Spring. 



The moist, the genial springtime fills 
The swollen brooks, the gurgling rills j 
Soft dews begem the earth's green cap, 
Through every fibre runs the sap. 
The tree puts forth the vigorous shoot, 
The pearl-dropt primrose decks its root. 
The rnoisten'd lids of opening flowers 
Look thankful up to sides of showers. 
Upon the mountain melts the snow 
That sparkles in the river's flow. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 93 

The little birds, from moistened throats, 
Proclaim the spring in liquid notes. 
The stream of life all nature feels — 
Earth, air, the secret law reveals. 
Then, Julia, look not with surprise 
If tears do flow from lover's eyes. 
But since all things their like beget, 
If with these tears mine eyes be wet, 
Let thine the genial influence prove, 
And thus my tears beget thy love. 



XII. 

Sbonj. 



(To the tune of— 

" I've kiss'd and I've prattled with fifty fair Maids, 
And chang'd them as oft, d'ye see." 

TRUE BLUE. 

There are fifty fine colours that flaunt and flare, 

All pleasant and gay to see ; 
But of all the fine colours that dance in the air, 

True Blue's the colour for me. 

True Blue is the colour of good true Love, 

For it melts in woman's eye ; 
True Blue is the colour of Heaven above, 

For it beams in the azure sky. 



94 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

True Blue is the vest that Nature, free, 
Has spread round the joyous earth. 

True Blue is the hue of the dancing sea, 
As it gave to Beauty birth. 

True Blue, it flows in the soft blue vein 
Of a bosom that's fair and true, — ■ 

As the violet, soften' d by HeavVs own rain, 
Is tinged with the Heavenly hue. 

True Blue, it is seen in the distant vale, 
Where the fond hearts love to roam ; 

It curls in the smoke from the sheltered dale, 
As it guides the wanderer home. 

True Blue hangs glorious over the wave, 
From a thousand ships unfurled ; 

It covers the hearts of the British brave, 
As they bear it round the world. 

And when skies grow dark and the wild winds yell, 

If he sees but a streak of blue 
Above him, the Steersman knows All's Well, 

That his Guardian Angel's true. 

Then, let all the fine colours go flaunt and flare, 

All pleasant and gay to see ; 
True Blue's the colour alone to wear, 

True Blue's the colour for me. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 95 

XIII. 

Jftaircigal 

I do adore a lady fair ; 
To precious stones I her compare : 
Her breast is marble ; her bright eyes 
Throw round a light of sapphire dyes ; 
Her lips are rubies, red and bright ; 
Her hands are alabaster white ; 
Her heart a diamond is, throughout, 
All other light it putteth out ; 
Nor sighs, nor tears it doth admit, 
So nature loves to harden it ; 
While thus all precious stones I see, 
In all her form and mind agree ; 
She is so rich, and I so poor, 
In vain I look — in vain adore. 



XIV. 

prologue to tfy "Spoilt ffijtfto." 

This Prologue and Epilogue were written by Mr. Eagles almost 
on an impromptu, when some of his little Grandchildren were 
going to act the " Spoiled Child," and when another of his Grand- 
children was somewhat unwillingly pressed into the service by his 
cousins ; his Grandfather at once producing the Prologue and 
Epilogue. The allusion to St. Mary's, Winton, arose from the 
Boy who was to recite them having lately returned from Winchester, 
where he is still, a Commoner. 

Spoken by L. I. G. C. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, His to assure you 

Of our main purpose, that I come before you ; 



96 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

But stay — I have forgot to make my bow ; — 
'Tis rather late — Please to accept it now. 

(Bows according to received Theatrical propriety.) 

We purpose, then, to give you "immense" pleasure, 
Which by our best endeavours you will measure, 
Not by performance. We will do our best, 
And your good nature will supply the rest, 
And your applause will be our surest test. 

If, then, you see our arms thus saw the air, 
Or graceless drop — our legs not seem a pair, 
But take a hobbling or a shuffling gait, 
Or go eccentric when they should go straight, 
Observe it not ; a smile from each fair face 
Will turn our every awkwardness to grace. 

You look surprised — then Fm not understood ; 

I know my language is not very good. 

Of late my English hath aside been flung, 

And dry Greek roots have starved my mother tongue; 

Though in our Grammar's frontispiece you see 

The Tree of Knowledge, like an apple tree, 

And two boys under it as big as me. 

Few climb, — and the rich upper boughs can grapple. 

As yet I have not touched a single apple, 

But such poor knowledge-fruit as may be found 

Nipt by a frost, and dropt upon the ground. 

But pray remember how the little fish 



CAKMINA LUSORIA. 97 

Excused himself from furnishing a dish — 

" Let me escape, good Fisherman ; when bigger, 

Then catch me, — and I cut a better figure." 

So I, when once a Prefect of Sixth Form, 

Will prologues speak, shall take applause by storm : 

Meanwhile your gentle minds I would imprint on, 

I'm a small scholar at St. Mary's, Winton, 

Aspiring to perfection in Philology ; 

At present pray accept this poor apology, 

And kindly to your critic sense annex it. 

No more — lest saying more should but perplex it ; 

Again I make my bow — and so — my exit. 



lEpilope. 

Spoken by L. I. G. C. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, once more I come 

(Applause and clapping of hands.) 
(Forbear applause, or you will strike me dumb,) 
To thank you for the grace your Voice affords 
To this our first appearance on these boards. 
By your encouragement to our good will, 
We hope improvement in Dramatic skill. 
And witnesses — no faces new — and proxies, 
But the same audience in these self-same boxes. 

And, though Spoilt Children we have been of right 

In this our Minor Theatre, to-night, 

We mean to show, when we shall be of age, 



98 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

To act our parts upon the World's large stage, 
A little spoiling in our Childhood's day- 
Does not unfit us for Life's serious Play. 
That, when on Duty's Boards we shall appear 
In Characters that suit each coming year, 
Your kind Indulgence has not spoilt us here. 
And that* — but I obey the Prompter's bell ; 
The Curtain drops, and so we bid — Farewell. 

* Sere Bell to tingle. 



XV. 

" Love me, love my dog." 

Old Proverb. 

<£J)Ioe anb 23tusft. 

When Dian went hunting thro' dingles and dell, 

By rock and by rill and by river, 
The mountains around her re-echoed the yell 

Of the beasts that were slain by her quiver. 

Her dogs were all fierce, and their fangs were much 
stronger, 

And the tails that they carried behind, 
And the ears that they carried before, were much longer 

Than any of those of their kind. 

But you, my dear Chloe, steal quiet incog, 
And yet are as sure in the chace ; 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 99 

Accompanied only by one little dog, 
* Assuming an innocent face. 

At your bidding be fetches, be runs, and he stops, 
And tbe shafts that you shoot are so gentle, 

That the prey at your feet quite contentedly drops, 
In the style of the true sentimental. 

Thus, at home or abroad, by yourself, and still more, 
By your deputy dog — (but, hark — hush ! 

There's prey for your bag, by that scratch at the door,) 

You are sure to come in for the Brush. 

(29^ Dec, 1846.) 

* A very happy and characteristic description of one of Brush's 
peculiarities. 



My correspondent writes : — " These playful lines were sent to 
me after I had successfully forwarded a packet fastened round the 
dog's neck, from St. Vincent's Parade, where I was then staying, 
to King's Parade. He invariably followed me home, as if to take 
care of me. He then returned and scratched at his master's door, 
some one of whose family always quickly let him in, when it was 
very pretty to see his dance of pleasure. This faithful dog was 
given by Mr. Standert to Mr. Eagles, and on that account alone 
would have been highly valued ; but he was a dog of uncommon 
sense — large white terrier of an uncommon kind — and became his 
master's inseparable companion, watching and waiting on him by 
day ; in the evening resting at his feet or lying on his lap while 
reading, and he always looked more truly happy there than in any 
other position. He is strongly associated with the last ten years of 
Mr. Eagles's life. Brush is still living, so cherished by Mr. Eagles's 
Children and Grandchildren, that his life seems to be prolonged, 
though he has outlived the master, and home he so loved." 



100 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

XVI. 

Ww Sbqufml. 

'Twas not a bright and sunny day, 
Laura and I were walking — 

Or if there was a single ray, 
'Twas only in our talking. 

We crossed the park, in mirthful mood, 
By mirth I mean not laughter, 

But gentle joy — we reached the door — 
Passed through — and slamm'd it after. 

A Squirrel, on the leafy ground 
Hard by, his nuts was munching — 

He thought a gun went off — a sound 
That spoils a Squirrel's luncheon. 

Down dropt his nuts — and off he set — 
Across the road he ventured — 

There found a wall — but not the hole, 
Alas I where he had entered. 

Across the road again he flew, 

And 'maz'd, like most encroachers — 

At seeing us, poor beast, in view — 
No doubt he thought us Poachers. 

Pm sure my face looked very bland, 

And Laura's every feature 
Told, that a babe might understand, 

She could not hurt a creatm-p 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 101 

But Squirrels trust not human looks, 

To me they're paradoxes, 
Perhaps they've read in Fable books 

What things we do to Foxes. 

Th' affrighted thing an instant stood, 

And paus'd — then off he started, 
And straight before us in the road 

Precipitately darted. 

But, ah ! imprudent was the flight, 
Too late experience taught him — ■ 

For soon as we were out of sight, 
Two boys surprised, and caught him. 

We saw him in an apron tied — 

(If how we saw, you wonder, 
At least we saw his tail outside, 

That showed his head was under.) 

Poor beast, thou'rt caged — art prisoner now, 

Must quit thy former habits, 
Thy slack-rope feats from bough to bough, 

Th' applause of hares and rabbits. 

Thy wife must take another mate, 

Or linger broken-hearted ; 
For sure the " District Registrar " 

Has booked thee down " Departed." 



102 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

Dear Laura ! scrutinize my rhymes, 
For the poor brains that spin them, 

Mark things that pass a thousand times 
That bear a moral in them. 

The Squirrel, captived in his flight, 
This lesson seems to carry, 

That very often when we fly, 
'Twere better far to tarry. 

It bids the timid maid look twice, 
When Lovers first approach her ; 

Nor trust first looks, that rarely show 
The true one from the Poacher ; 

And flying oft a gentle heart, 

Lest gentle arms should catch her, 

That "farther on she may fare worse/ 3 
And ruder hands may snatch her. 



The occurrence which gave rise to the above poem arose from a 
walk which a lady was taking with Mr. Eagles through the Park 
at Ashton, near Bristol. There is a door at the end, near the 
inn, which shut with a bang. The poem may be truly con- 
sidered a " Sketch from Nature." The lady adds, she had often 
observed how extremely interested Mr. Eagles always was in all 
living things down to " beetles." 

It may be added that almost any thing is capable of poetic 
treatment. An individual life — a phenomenon of nature — a human 
character — a mood of mind — a single passing thought or feeling, 
are all adequate subjects for the true poetical genius ; and noble 
poems have been, times beyond number, made out of each of these. 
What sort of a poem may be produced, will depend upon the 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 103 



peculiar bias of the mind to this or that of the myriad aspects 
which every object presents — upon the language in which it is 
composed — upon the degree in which the poet is master of its 
powers, upon the general knowledge and refinement of the age, and 
the degree in which he partakes of them. 

How truly the following definition of poetry, by Coleridge, 
applies to Mr. Eagles's varied productions : — " Therefore I descend 
from the ideal into the real world, so far as to conjoin both; to 
give a sphere of active operations to the ideal, and to elevate and 
refine the real." 

The above remarks are peculiarly applicable to several of the 
preceding poems. 



XVII, 

®f)tmanint})£moon.— a 3Me. 

Felix, there are who say they cannot see 

The light that shines upon those lunar pages, 

Which should transmit, I fondly hoped, both me 
And all Bristolians down to future ages. 

Is it my fault, if Dull will miss the scope 
And meaning, when I aim at style Horatian ? 

People may look through HerschePs telescope 
That never make a lunar observation. 

I have seen many staring at the Moon, 

That did not know her from a silver spoon. 

Sometimes our wits, eyes, ears, or noses fail, 
As you will learn much better from a tale. 



104 CARMINA LUSORIA, 

A Drunkard, staggering home one Moon-lit night, 

Chanc'd, for a bed, into a ditch to light ; 

And there he lay extended on his back, 

A heavy lump, and lifeless as a sack. 

The ground was dry on which his carcase slipp'd, 

While in the standing pool his legs were dipp'd. 

And the full Moon, that shone on his disgrace, 

Star'd, like his wife's broad visage, in his face. 

It chanced a stranger, passing by that way, 

Perceived the drunken lubbard as he lay ; 

And woke him with no very friendly shake ; 

But still his senses were but half awake. — 

He fancied he was sleeping at an Inn, 

And thought it was the Chambermaid stepped in 

To call him ; and had just the wits to say — 

" I shan't get up so soon, why 'tis'nt day. 

You jade — this pillow is as hard as lead, 

And you forgot last night to warm my bed : 

Tuck me round closer to keep in the heat, 

And put another blanket on my feet." 

Then, staring at the Moon, more peevish cries, — 

" Take that confounded Rushlight from my eyes." 

MORAL. 

Many there are this tale severely handles, 

Who take the lights of Heaven for farthing candles. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 105 

XVIII. 

tEfyz iWonopoltst. 

A good for nothing miserly Curmudgeon, 
Whose little soul would strive to skin a flint, 

And dine whole days upon a single gudgeon, 
Dream'd of a scarcity, and took the hint ; 

Believing, as he counted o'er his pelf, 

That Heav'n would be as niggard as himself. 

He bought up quickly all the grain to hoard, 
And far'd himself upon the hopes of gain ; 

And, with his magazines immensely stor'd 

Stinted his belly to a single grain : 
Meanwhile, to mar his schemes, the markets drop, 
And plentifully Nature yields her crop. 

What will not avarice, that monstrous sin, do ; 

He went and hang'd himself upon a rafter, 
And his wife saw him do it from the window, 

And scarcely could contain her joy from laughter. 
But fortune rather seem'd inclined to frown, 
And sent a neighbour in to cut him down. 

The wretch soon came to life again, because 

He had not put his foot in Charon's boat ; 
And instantly he nVd his griping claws, 



106 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

In gratitude upon his neighbour's throat. 
' ' I'll not be here," said he, " the loser, but 
Til make you pay me for the rope you've cut." 

MORAL. 

Ye paltry niggards who thus fortunes carve, 
Why don't you teach us, like yourselves, to starve. 



XIX. 

^fie parent <2M. 

The Oak of Old England for ages had stood 
The Parent and Pride of the far-spreading wood ; 
And it wav'd in its glory o'er corn-field and glade, 
And our forefathers, happy, sat under the shade. 

0, the old Parent Oak was a Monarch to see ; 
The hand of good Alfred, it planted the tree ; 
And the best and the bravest — the warrior and sage, 
Were the Priests of its glory in youth and in age. 

And once, when the storm of wild anarchy spread, 
And the blood of a King and the loyal was shed, 
In its sheltering branches a Monarch it bore, 
And our forefathers they hallow' d and lov'd it the more. 

0, the old Parent Oak, from its branches it flung 
The acorns around, whence a progeny sprung, 
That took root in the soil, Heaven bless' d with its dew, 
And Forests of Freedom in vigour upgrew. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 107 

And they bore on the Ocean full bravely their might, 
And their stout hearts of oak brav'd the storm and 

the fight ; 
And the Halls of Old England's dominion uprear'd, 
Where Liberty spoke, and where Law was rever'd. 

In arches of triumph the branches were spread, 
Where Religion might hallow the living and dead ; 
And the blessing-taught people long cherished with awe 
The structures of Peace, and of Learning and Law. 

0, the old Parent Oak, as the Forests up-grew, 
Was fresh in its age, and rejoiced in the view ; 
And lifted its head in its power and its pride, 
And shook the wild storms from its branches aside. 

0, who would have thought that a change would 

come o'er 
The heart of a people, to reverence no more 
The Oak of Old England, to deem themselves wise, 
When all that their fathers most lov'd they despise. 

Once more the mad tempest of Anarchy pour'd 
Its wrath o'er the Earth, as in thunders it roar'd ; 
And the Demons of Hell were let loose in the storm, 
And howFd out their watchword of mischief, "Reform.^ 



108 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

The hurricane bellowed, the lightnings shot round, 
And far forests blaz'd or lay low on the ground ; 
And the storm-demons yelPd in their fury, and passed, 
And the Oak of Old England stood firm in the blast. 

Then Rebels and Regicides stood round the tree, 
And its proud top unscathed they rejoiced not to see; 
And they niggardly envied the cost and the care 
To preserve it uninjured, and hoped it was bare. 

And they swore, tho' the red lightning's bolt spared 

to kill 
The old noble limbs that were flourishing still — 
That the Tree of Old England no longer should shoot, 
And cried in their madness — "The axe to the root." 

" The axe to the root" in their fury they cried, 
And who should have guarded the precincts replied, 
" The axe to the root," and obeyed the command, 
And struck the first blow with his parricide hand. 

0, wide was the wound, for Ingratitude's stroke 
Aim'd deep to the heart, at the true heart of Oak ; 
And the trunk and the branches shrunk back with 

a moan, — 
And the Monarch of England then shook on his throne. 

Then the Rebels their voices threw up to the sky ; 
And the Grey-beard Arch Traitor his cordage threw high, 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 109 

And the limbs of the Tree that were proudest fast 

bound, 
And call'd on the Unions to pull to the ground ; 

And tho' round them the stout chords were craftily flung, 
And the traitors pulPd hard, still the limbs closer 

clung, 
To the old Parent Trunk still they clung with their 

might, 
TW bruised by the force, and stript bare to the sight. 

Then loud was the blasphemy, insult, and mirth — 
" Cut it down to the ground, for it cumbers the earth ; 
Cut it down, tho* all England should shake with the 

shock, 
And the blood of a King shall soon water its block." 

Has the fury of demons "the people" possest; 
Are there none may the hands of the traitors arrest ? 
Yes, stout hearts and brave shall still stand round 

the tree, 
To the Baal of France, that have bow'd not the knee. 

Tho"* the axe has cut deep, accursM treachery aim'd, 
And the trunk of the Monarch of Forests be maim'd, 
Its proud branches injur'd, and yet doomed to fade, 
Let us trust that the hand of the spoiler is staid. 



110 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

That the old Oak of England is still sound at heart, 
That its honours, now fading, shall never depart ; 
It may tempests defy, in new vigour arise, 
And burst in its glory once more to the skies. 

That the eye that o'erruleth the thunders may shed 
The sunshine of Peace on its still verdant head ; — 
And if victims must fall — that the Traitor lie low, 
'Neath the trunk of the tree where he struck the 
first blow. 



Mr. Eagles wrote many Patriotic Ballads and Songs similar to 
the foregoing during the period of the Reform Mania. No one 
ever stood firmer or more consistently to Conservative Principles, 
which he always boldly and openly professed. 



XX. 

Sfttplg to an Habitation to forite a ^oem. 

Dear Chloe, when you bid me write, 

You really ought to think, 
It isn't every horse you lead 

To water, that will drink ; 

Not even draughts on Helicon, 

However sweet they flow — 
Nor are they now-a-days like drafts 

On Messrs. Miles and Co. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. Ill 

What, write a Song ! mere Rhymes on Love, 

Alas ! my sleep is calm — 
No dreams of love — and my poor pen 

But scrawls into a Psalm. 

Each Muse I ask'd in terms most sweet, 

(They love my pride to stab,) 
They answered me with a sour look — 

They were engaged with Crabb. 

Again I ask'd in Florio's name, 

As being loth to jog 
On vulgar John, they pertly said, 

They were engaged with Hogg. 

One day I thought they smil'd, and ask'd 

But for a Song; — just then 
They were engaged in Hymns for Hig- 

-ginbottom of Bungay's pen. 

The truth I plainly now perceive — 

The task you me affix, 
The Muses never will allow 

To one going forty-six. 

My love is 3 per Cent. Reduced, 

My passion, Orthodox, 
My love Fve all transferred, and put 

My Cupid in the stocks. 



112 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 



No longer now to Delia's eye 
Or locks, I rhymes indite ; 

I swore they were angelic once, 
But now I think — not quite. 

But could you give me back eighteen, 
When youth inspired my quill — 

When e'en a little finger's tip 
Made me all over thrill — 



No more averse a verse to write, 
I would not yield to Bard, 

If thou, fair Chloe wert my Muse, 
My Theme, and my Reward. 



CARMINA LUSORIA, 
TRANSLATED BY MR. EAGLES, 

FROM VINCENT BOURNE'S POEM ATI A. 



THE TITLE of " Carmina Lusoria" or "Scrapsof Rhyme" which 
Mr. Eagles gave to the following translations from the Poematia of 
Vincent Bourne, was so appropriate to these selections made from 
Mr. Eagles's Miscellaneous Poems, that there was no hesitation 
in adopting it. Vincent Bourne's Latin Poems have always been 
admired for their playfulness and humour. No one was more 
delighted with them, and loved their author better, than the Poet 
Cowper. — " I love the memory of Vinny Bourne," he says in one 
of his letters to Hayley — " I think him a better Latin Poet than 
Tibullus, Propertius, Ausonius, or any of the writers in his way, 
except Ovid, and not at all inferior to him. His humour is entirely 
original. With all his drollery, there is a mixture of natural and 
even religious reflection at times, and always an air of pleasantry, 
good nature, and humanity, that makes him, in my mind, one of 
the most amiable writers in the world." Cowper translated 
twenty-two of his Latin Poems ; Mr. Eagles has translated twelve. 
Both entered into their spirit and facetiousness ; which excelled 
the other let the public determine. Amongst the following, 
selected t from Mr. Eagles's translations, there is one which 
each translated. They are here printed, with the Latin original, 
that a comparison may be formed between them. The edition 
from which Mr. Eagles made his translations, before he transmitted 
them to " Blackwood's Magazine," is now in the hands of his 
friend. They are written in a small neat hand round the margin 
of the pages ; and is another instance of Mr. Eagles's facility and 
correctness in composition, the alteration even of a word occurring 
in few of them. 

Mr. Eagles thus pleasantly introduces his translations :— 
a "Winter is over. March, that came in like a lion, has been led 
out like a lamb, tamed by Lady-Day. Even the east wind is away, 
• with sighing sent/ Youth begins to be its own spring ; and age 



114 CARMINA LUSORIA. 



to ' babble of green fields.' All we want is to shun retrospect, and 
be happy. For looking backward, says Lord Kaimes, is like 
walking backward ; it is not the way man should go. The path is 
growing green that leads to pleasant woods. Let us fancy the little 
stream a Lethe, lie down by it, look into it, just to see how ugly 
we are with all the past year's troubles on our faces; and, ' so to 
interpose a little ease' — one dip, — and look again, how much better 
do we appear. 

"We are prepared for a month's cheerfulness, and accept 
amusement. 

' I nunc et versus tecum meditare.' 

And why not ? Happy is the versifier. Great is the man whose whole 
want is centred in a rhyme — and to whom, when found, it is more 
precious than the philosopher's stone. He who finds a rhyme finds 
a treasure, and is contented with it : he is not like him who, finding 
a purse of money, was so vexed at not having found it before he 
had lost so many years' interest, that he went and hanged himself. 
Versifier is happy that he had not found it before, for the search for 
it has led him through the sweetest mazes in the garden of poetry. 
Whatever the world may think of him, he now thinks well of 
himself. ' Evpnxoc, ' is not only on his lips, but in his heart. He 
is the master of joy, and overmasters grief. He couples it to verse, 
and makes it go his own pace. He rhymes over the very grave, 
and thinks he has invented such a sauce as one might eat one's 
grandmother withal ! It is only the versifier by instinct, by natural 
temperament — spontaneous, unpaid, unhired — of whom this, how- 
ever, can be said. 

" The amiable Cowper thought his playful pieces sinful j and too 
lightly viewed the playfulness of the *Usher's genius, which certainly 
coloured his own. Had Vincent Bourne lived to read the scholar's 
' John Gilpin,' he would have put it into exquisite Latin, and 
have overcome a difficulty which several modern Latinists have 
attempted not very successfully. 

" It was in the busy idleness of a mere rhymer that I took up 
Vincent Bourne, and lighted mostly on those pieces which were 
shortest, and therefere best suited to the humour of the hour. I 
thank Cowper for the portrait, and cheat myself into the fancy that 
I have spent some pleasantly idle hours with the usher, for which I 
beg forgiveness of those matter-of-fact philosophers who look upon 
versifiers as belonging to the unproductive classes — as the drones 
who ought to be extinguished by brimstone. Here is a ' Concetto,' 
a somewhat extravagant compliment. ' I love Vinny Bourne' — as 

* Vincent Bourne was Usher at Westminster when Cowper 
was a Pupil. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 115 



Cowper said, so I say — the more for his not infrequent praise of art, 
He loved Pictures. He had before written on the portrait — ' In 
Effigiem Dominse Catharinse Hyde.' " 

After these episodical remarks, a few of Mr. Eagles's translations 
must be acceptable to his relations and friends, for whose gratifica- 
tion the publication of this " Garland" is principally intended. To 
each of these translations Mr. Eagles has prefixed some of those 
lively remarks which accompanied many of his poems. We will 
commence with the " Reconciliation"; and as Vincent Bourne's 
*' Carmina" are generally short, and Mr. Eagles has in some 
instances happily lengthened his translations, a better judgment can 
be formed of the truthful spirit with which he entered into their 
meaning. 



XXI. 

3iUcfjrmItatrix. 

Crescentes laudes Natura inviderat Arti ; 

Et sibi rivalem nescia ferre parem ; 
Divinam effinxit Nympham, et formam addidit ori, 

Cui Cypriae posset cedere forma deae. 
Hanc videt Arsj vincique dolet, doctosque resumens 

Knelleri calamos, aemula tentat opus : 
Depingit suavesque genas, mollesque capillos, 

Et colla intacta candidiora nive. 
Virginei rubor idem, eademque est gratia vultus; 

Et similis roseo spirat in ore decor. 
Hinc nee certamen vult ilia iterare vel ilia : 

Contenta et felix utraque laude sua. 
Gloria Naturae atque Artis, componere tantas 

Quae potuit lites unica, mira fuit. 



Wfyz Htconcilmg 22eautg. 

Nature with envy heard the praise of Art, 

Nor knew to make a rival counterpart. 

At length a maid she brought of form and face 



116 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

So perfect, Venus had not half her grace. 

Then Art was grieved, and Kneller's pencil took, 

And copied every feature, every look : 

Her snowy bosom, dimpled cheek, and fair, 

And glossed with all her skill the silken hair ; 

In purest virgin hues her pencil dips, 

And a like beauty breathes from roseate lips. 

Their works complete, each with her own was pleased, 

Nor would renew the contest, and it ceased. 

Oh ! who could reconcile this rival pride 

Of Art and Nature — but the lovely Hyde ? 



XXII. 



" If inexorable rhyme, or the untranslatableness of original 
substantives, adjectives, or lines, has tempted me to deviate a hair's- 
breadth from the square and rule of translationship, I trust the 
muses of the particular locality of the following piece will excuse a 
liberty of speech in which themselves indulge; and, indeed, here 
I would deprecale the wrath of the gentle reader on this score 
throughout these attempts, which would never have been made at all 
under the compulsion of using ' Mercator's Scale,' and under foot 
or inch rule." 



Scfcola BUfjetortces. 

Londini ad pontem, Billing! nomine, porta e 
Unde ferunt virides ostrea Nereides. 
Hie sibi perpetuam legit facundia sedem, 
Nee modus hie verbis, neve figura deest. 
Sermonem densis oratrix floribus ornat, 
Et fundit varios, ingeminatque, tropos. 
Et nervi, et veneres, et vis, et copia fandi. 
Insunt ; et justum singula pondus habent. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 117 

O sedes totidem multiim celebrata per annos ! 

Orune tibi rostrum cedit, et orane forum. 
Utraque, quos malit, titulos academia jactet, 

At tibi linguarum Jama nomen erit ! 



' Here I am off to an ad libitum movement/' 

®l)t Sbrfjooi of motoric. 

By London Bridge stands Billings-gate, 
Where nymphs, by men called oyster-wenches, 
Bring fish to sell, and hold debate. 
Here eloquence sits throned on benches, 
And arguments so-fisticate 
Adroitly clenches. 

Professors of the softer sex 
Pour out vocabulary vigour, 
In speech that Priscian would perplex, 
Unfettered by grammatic rigour, 
Defying all the law directs 
Of mood and figure. 

Yield either Senate — Pulpit — Bar — 
Your pleading, preaching, and debating, 
Apologetic ifs, and war 
Of words — mistaking and misstating — 
Compared to theirs not very far 
Removed from prating. 



118 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

Ye Oxford Tutors, Cambridge Dons, 

Who empty heads are ever filling 

With parallellipipidons. 

And classic stuff, not worth a shilling, 

Driving o'er the Asinorum Pons, 

By cramming, urging dolts unwilling : 

To Mother Wit go take your sons, 

And pass them through the Gate of Billing. 

XXIII. 

" The following is of far other character ; it took the usher in 
one of his gentlest moods. Be sure, he loved children; their 
innocence was both after and in his own heart." 



En Statuam Scpulcfiralem Enfantts JBarmientis. 

Infans venuste, qui sacros dulces agens 

In hoc sopores marmore, 
Placidissima quiete compostus jaces, 

Et inscius culpae et metus, 
Sorano fruaris, docta quam dedit manus 

Sculptoris ; et somno simul, 
Quern nescit artifex vel ars effingere, 
Fruaris innocentise. 



On tf)z jib«}mlc!)ral j&tatue of a j£lefptng @j)Ut>. 

Beautiful child ! whose marble effigy 
Layeth so silently its placid head 

Upon this sainted bed, 
With so calm front, and blameless excellence, 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 119 

Enjoy the sleep the hand of sculptor gave ; 
And that, too, which no art 

Of sculptor can impart, 
The sweet sleep of thy grave — 

Thy sleep of innocence. 



XXIV. 



11 The following seems to have received a hint from the ' French 
economists,' who, as is known, maintained that foreign commerce 
is exchange, but adds not to the stock of a nation's wealth" : — 

©«atros ^jStsettator tt HUstttutor. 

Abluit Oceanus terras hinc inde jacentes ; 

Excavat et ripas, subtus edendo, salum. 
At neque contrahitur tellus subducta rapinis; 

At neque fit furtis auctior unda suis. 
Nam parte ex alia desertam extendit arenam 

'Littus, et e mediis insula crescit aquis. 
Nil prodest lucrum, cui damna sequalia; fines 

Oceanus mutat, sed superare nequit." 



<©cean, tj)e Ptmtaer an& tty Mmoxtx. 

The ocean eats into the shore, 
Yet never gains one fathom more, 
But, giving up whatever it takes, 
Enlarges coasts, and islands makes. 
It plunders, yet it nought retains — 
Earth has no loss, and sea no gains. 
So His with wealth, if men would set 



120 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

Against it all their toil and fret. 
How what is won to-day, to-morrow 
Pays back — and with its interest sorrow. 
Ocean and wealth both shift their grounds, 
But cannot pass th' appointed bounds. 



XXV. 



" It is a pretty tale, that told by Strada, of the rivalry between 
the Shepherd and the Nightingale. This is Vincent Bourne's 
version" : — 

Strata iJSfcilomda. 

Pastorem audivit calamis Philomela canentem, 

Et voluit tenues ipsa referre modos ; 
Ipsa retentavit numeros, didicitique retentans 

Argutum fida reddere voce melos. 
Pastor inassuetus rivalem ferre, missellam 

Grandius ad carmen provocat, urget avem. 
Tuque etiam in modulos surgis, Philomela; sed impar 

Viribus, heu impar, exanimisque cadis. 
Durum certamen ! tristis victoria ! cantum 

Maluerit pastor non superasse fcuum. 



Strata's Ntc$tmgale. 

(Cowpers translation.) 

The shepherd touched his reed ; sweet Philomel 
Essayed, and oft essayed to catch the strain, 

And treasuring, as on her ear they fell, 
The numbers, echoed note for note again. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 121 

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before 
A rival of his skill, indignant heard, 

And soon (for various was his tuneful store) 
In loftier tones defied the simple bird. 

She dared the task, and rising, as he rose, 

With all the force, that passion gives, inspired, 

Returned the sounds awhile, but in the close, 
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired. 

Thus strength, not skill, prevailed. fatal strife, 
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun ! 

And sad victory, which cost thy life, 
And he may wish that he had never won ! 



(Mr. Eagles s translation.) 

A shepherd, piping on his reeds, was heard 

By that melodious bird, 
The Nightingale — but poets have preferred 
Sweet Philomel. 

And very hard she tried, with learning long, 

And all her little might of song, 
To imitate the notes, or low or strong, 
Cadence and swell. 

That shepherd, proud of skill, did little look 

For such a rival — nor did brook 
The small compeer, and thenceforth boldly took 
A higher strain. 



122 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

And thus did he provoke her — she, poor thing, 

Her utmost voice did fling, 
And in a fatal strife essayed to sing, 
Alas ! in vain. 

Poor bird ! why didst thou with that shepherd vie, 

Aiming at strains too high, 
Giving thy life, (for thou didst fall and die,) 
To shepherd's art ? 

Oh, victory hardly won ! Oh, cruel meed, 

Won by so sad a deed ! 
Rather that shepherd he had broke his reed, 
Than thou thy heart. 



XXVI. 



" Now, I must confess, I am but a loose translator of the next. 
Owl gravity one has a spite against ; for I am quite certain it will 
look condemnation upon anything so light as these rhymes. The 
parrot that could not speak was said by the owner to think the 
more, and the cunning rogue sold him for a higher price. 

" Many are the human owls one meets with, whose opinions lie 
in perpetual frowns, who, if they would but speak them out, would 
only expose their nonsense." 



^Ius scire oportet, quam loqut. 

Quae gravitas oculis ! et quae Constantia fronti ! 

Sobrius ut toto pectore Bubo sapit ! 
Ales Pythagora dignus, dignusque Minerva ! 

Sermonis parcus, consillique tenax 
Oh habitet tecum, Bubo, et sit pectore in isto, 

Quiquid habes i quoties effluet, omen erit. 



CARMINA LUSORIA. 123 

3Et te tot to fenofo mudj art& gpeafe little* 

How gravely stares the sober Owl, 

How like a judge — lie well might pass 

For wisdom's transmigrated fowl, 
Once Pallas or Pythagoras. 

The latter sage was he, mayhap, 

As for deep-thinking once he had 
Entered the order of La Trappe, 

He is so silent and so sad. 

So sparing of his speech, he looks 

Just come from out the cave Trophonian — 

As one had conned the Sybil's books, 
And knew the numbers Babylonian. 

Keep to thyself whatever thou knowest, 

Feathered solemnity ; for so men 
Are caught with that grave face thou showest — 

Thine every utterance is an omen. 



XXVII. 

Here we have puss in a corner." 

"Non es quoti stmulas. 

Ante focum nutatque et luinina claudet herilem 

Et stupida, et vultu seria, Felis anus. 

Nil ea lascivi saltus meminisse videtur ; 

Lusus si spectes, nil juvenilis habet, 

Sed grave sed prudens quamvis, castumque tuetur, 

Caudam, cum tempus fert, agitate potest. 



124 CARMINA LUSORIA. 

Not, not pou seem. 

Before your fire, too dull to purr, 
Sits madam puss — her eyes she closes, 
And tucks her paws beneath her fur, 
And indolently stupid dozes. 

Who would believe she e'er could frolic ? 
To see her look so grave, and smitten 
With that indifference melancholic, 
Or think she ever was a kitten ? 

Demurest cats, grave, old, and grey, 

Know they have tails, tho' loth to whisk 'em ; 

You to amuse with wonton way, 

Choose their own time and place to frisk 'em. 



" I do not pretend to offer these translations as evidence of the 
genius of Vincent Bourne, but they served to show the sort of 
things he loved to cloche in verse. However poor my work, there 
has been amusement, and chiefly in this, that it has given me a 
perception of the charm of that neatness, in which Cowper thought 
the usher not excelled by Ovid. 

" I come to an end — may I hope before the reader has put down 
the pages and cried ' Ohe, jam satis ! ' I offer but a motley 
assemblage — but in this world of much serious foolery, and foolish 
seriousness, motley is no bad mind's wear : put it on, not outwardly, 
but inwardly. It will keep out some care, or cover it. The field 
of literature has its light as well as its heavy artillery, its sharp- 
shooters and skirmishers ; and even in the most orderly practice of 
its evolutions, the fugleman is set foremost, and gives the best 
direction to others' movements, when, to those who understand not 
his attitudes, he only seems to be playing the fool or the buffoon." 

J. E. 



FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 



H RACE IN BRISTOL 



PREFACE BY MR. EAGLES. 



"The Works of Horace have always been numbered amongst 
the most valuable remains of antiquity. If we may rely upon the 
judgment of his commentators, he has united in his Lyric Poetry 
the enthusiasm of Pindar, the majesty of Alcseus, the tenderness of 
Sappho, and the charming levities of Anacreon. Yet he has beauties 
of his own genius, his own manner, that form his peculiar character. 
Many of his odes are varied with irony and satire ; with delicacy 
and humour; with ease and pleasantry. Some of them were 
written in the first heat of imagination, when circumstances of 
time, places, persons, were strong upon him. In others, he rises 
in full poetic diguity; sublime in sentiment, bold allusions, and 
profuse of figures; frugal of words, curious in his choice, and 
happily venturous in his use of them ; pure in his diction, animated 
in his expression, and harmonious in his numbers; aitful in the 
plan of his poems, regular in their conduct, and happy in their 
execution. 

" Francis, upon the whole, has been his best translator ; but as 
Horace drew not his maxims or his characters from particular 
persons, but from human nature itself, which is the same in all ages 
and countries, so will there always be room and materials for new 
translations. A few are now about to be submitted to the Bristol 
Public. 

" It was the remark of a great man, that he who hated vice 
hated mankind ; but certainly he does not love them as he ought, 
who indulges his natural sagacity in a discernment of their faults, 
and feels an ill-natured pleasure in exposing them to public view. 

" Horace was of another spirit : and if the present translator is 
true to his original, the odes we are about to insert can give reason- 
able offence to no one. Horace, says one of his Biographers, was 



126 FARLEIANA HORATIANA. 



of a natural cheerfulness of temper; an easiness of manners, 
fashioned by the politeness of courts ; a good understanding, 
improved by conversing with mankind; a quick discernment of 
their frailties, but in general, so happy an art of correcting them, that 
he reproves without offending, and instructs without an affectation 
of superiority. He has this advantage over the rigid satirist, that 
we receive him into our bosoms, while he reasons with good humour, 
and corrects in the language of friendship." 



In addition to the above introduction to these translations from 
Horace, it is necessary to the proper understanding of several, that 
the then Editor of "Felix Farley's Journal" should add a few 
words: — He had, previously to their appearance, written a series of 
letters therein, with the signature of Cosmo, exposing the exactions 
and abuses which had for years existed in several public bodies in 
Bristol, especially in the Corporation, the Governing Body of the 
city, under the names of Town and Mayor's dues, which had 
seriously injured the commerce and trade of the port. Several 
members of the Corporation had contrived to exempt themselves 
from their payment, particularly those upon sugar. The town dues 
upon the exportation of woollen goods from the neighbouring town 
of Stroud and other places were so high, that it was cheaper to the 
manufacturer to send them by land carriage to Liverpool than to 
export them direct from Bristol. The Corporation had also become 
a close body, elected by favoritism at privare meetings of the leading 
members, who frequently consisted of individuals incompetent to 
the discharge of magisterial and other duties. Many were purse- 
proud, ignorant, and vindictive; the laughing-stock of their fellow- 
citizens. Such characters have always been considered in a free 
country legitimate objects for satire and ridicule. It may be 
supposed that the exposure of these men, and the abuses which 
they perpetuated, created no small sensation in the city. The 
public attention being thus drawn to them, legal proceedings 
took place ; and, lastly, Parliamentary interference brought about 
the abolition of the most oppressive of the dues. It is to these 
subjects and persons that some of these Horatian Odes allude. 
Mr. Eagles also addressed to the Editor some Latin Macaronic 
Rhymes, full of wit and humour, which kept up the public attention 
and did good service to the cause. These he afterwards freely 
translated and enlarged, with the Title of Felix Farley Rhymes. 
There are one or two of the translations which refer to political 
characters of the day. 

The remainder of the translations are, many of them, addressed 
to Mr. Eagles's particular friends, and shew the sweetness of his 
disposition and the warmth of his attachment, varied as they are, 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 127 



with delicacy of feeling, ease and pleasantry, with a full appreciation 
of the various beauties of the Roman Poet, and his ability to 
translate and adapt them to modern characters and manners. 



In elucidation of the characters of the Bristol Officials, the 
following quotation from Felix Farley Rhymes are too appro- 
priate to be omitted : — 



} 



" First, Felix, let your graphic pen 
Describe the May'r and Aldermen ; 
Your May'r is like an almanack, 
The new one makes the old snail pack, 
Without bis house upon his back. 
Still to their villas do they ride 
Waiting for none, like time and tide, 
Each day, and leave too clear the coast, 
For thieves, when Justice quits her post. 
Day closes, and the rows commence, 
And the street's vulgar insolence- 
Catcall and groans — your pocket's pick'd — 
You're hustled, p'rhaps knock'd down and kick'd. 
You call " the watch, the watch" — he snores — 
Or else is gone ! — and so is your's !— 
A robber's ta'en, the city round 
You search — no Justice to be found — 
Your City-conservators, trustees, 
Are at their villas. — There Sir Justice, 
Good easy man, in 's easy chair, 
A sitting magistrate — but where ? 
Dreams of his credit and his cash, 
And of to-morrow's calipash; 
While scar'd and unprotected peace 
Flies from a negligent police ; 
Nor gates nor bars exclude, as said 
By Dryden's muse, the busy trade. 
Thieves break into your house at night — 
Dare you dispute their ruffian right — 



128 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

The lead, that's stolen from your roof, 
Tries, if your bead be bullet-proof. — 
Such was the city anno — — — — 
They say, not now, and Heaven be thank'd. 

One question I would ask with fear; 
Do now-a-days, when every ear 
Is like the ear of rhetorician, 
The Council break the head of Priscian ? 
Chuse ye still masons, tanners, skinners 
To flourish at your public dinners ? 
Sheriffs, who 'fore the Judges stammer, 
In breach of common sense and grammar; 
Who having learnt one golden rule, 
At some poor elemental school 
Just big enough to whip a cat in, 
Have thought it " quantum suff." of Latin : 
•' * To hold an office, and take fees, 
Eat, use, have dignity and ease, 
Exchange, communicate, supersede." 
Words worthy of the civic creed. 
Friend Felix, in tbeir teeth I cast 
The adage, " Cobbler mind your last;" 
In pity, Felix, chuse henceforth 
By wit, as well as what they're worth." 

" 'Tis whisper'd round that ev'ry column 
Of Felix Farley makes them solemn, 
And some the Faculty presage, 
If 't lasts, will go off in a rage."f 

* Fungor, fruor, utor, &c. Latin Grammar. 

f " In allusion to the endeavours making by the Editor of " Felix 
Farley's Journal " to reduce the local taxation of the Port ; the 
rates or duties levied in which have been highly oppressive, and 
diverted from the purposes for which they were originally 
granted." 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 129 

ODE XXIX.— LIB. 3. 

TO FELIX FARLEY. AN INVITATION. 

Thou worthy Scion of that stock 
Farleian, wont to reign supreme 
O'er realms of News as over ream — 

Here bowery rose and holyhock 

Shoot high, and twine to shut us in, 
And there's untouched an antient bin 
To cheer the heart and smooth the skin. 

Haste then, and quit the gloomy flood, 
That creeps by Avon's slimy banks ; 
Where Goram play'd his giant pranks, 

And plung'd St. Vincent's head in mud. 
Hall, feast, and bustling traffic quit, 
Leave the fastidious smoky cit, 
His pride, and Common-Council wit. 

Poor as I am, yet country fare 
May often shame the richer store, 
If joy stands smiling at the door 

To smooth the wrinkled brow of care ; 
And welcomes, not to civic state, 
Where pamper'd liveried porters wait, 
And scarcely ope th' unwilling gate. 



130 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

Senex* but ill conceals his rage ; 

The Town-Clerk^ raves in frothy ire, 
The Lion's J eye-balls sparkling fire, 

And lashing tail his wrath presage. 
Th' intolerable heat and drought, 
The stinking float, and fuss about 
That nuisance, ought to drive you out. 

The Ettrick Shepherd tends his sheep ; 
Maga sends forth her languid crew 
To "Windsor's forest shades, or Kew ; 

The Coleridges their vallies keep : 
And good Sylvanus Urban now 
Perched on some hillocks greensward brow, 
Sketches his antient church, while thou 

With guardian eye and watchful care 

Walkest through market, lane and street ; 
And searchest out, when Chambers meet, 

The secret plan or legal snare ; 
Or dost within thy office set 
Those types, that make Old Senex sweat, 
And millest Mills§ and his Gazette. 

* Alderman Noble, who remonstrated with Felix Farley, under 
the fictitious name of Senex, in haughty and petulant terms on his 
daring attacks, as he was pleased to call them, on the members of 
the Corporation. 

f Sergeant Ludlow, the paid Agent of the Corporation, other- 
wise a liberal man. 

X The White Lion a celebrated Inn. 

§ The Proprietor of an Ultra-Liberal Newspaper. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 131 

Ah ! spare thyself, Heav'n wisely hides 
In deepest shade the coming year ; 
And when poor mortals idly fear, 

Their vain solicitude derides. 
Thine is the present ; all beside 
Flows on in time's continuous tide, 
That oft perchance may smoothly glide ; 

Or o'er the rocky flood-gates dash, 

Man and his lordly cities sweep 

Into the desolate gulf and deep, 
With one loud universal crash. 

His is possession, who can say 

At each day's end, I've liv'd to-day ; 

So let to-morrow hap what may : 

The past is out of Fortune's power, 

Tis snatch'd from Chance, what once has been; 
Enjoyment puts a bar between 

The present and the coming hour ; 
Fortune, whose sport is but to rack 
And torture mortals, turns not back, 
But flies straight forward to attack. 

From you to me her worthless things 

With envious busy fingers shifts, 

If she remain, I prize her gifts, 
But scorn them when she shakes her wings ; 

Wrapt in myself her power defy, 

Then with my open arms I fly 

To dowerless honest Poverty. 



132 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

I will not basely court the Quean 

With tears and sighs, e'er she abscond, 
For Chili shares, or India bond, 

To dub me Bishop or a Dean ; 

For Lottery's twenty thousand prize, 
To cheat the Customs or Excise, 
And spare my costly merchandise. 

The frightened sailors clear the deck, 
And stormy seas grow rich ; while oft 
There's a sweet cherub sits aloft, 

To guard the humbler skiff from wreck. 
My stores aboard, I'll do my best, 
Secure, if conscience calm my breast, 
— The Norwich Union does the rest. 



ODE I.— LIB. 1. 

&& JJtocenatem. 

O Mr. May'r th' epitome 

And quintessence of Forty-three,* 

Boll'd sausage-wise in one ; 
There are, who love to drive a town- 
built curricle on Durdham Down ; 

Or for the plate to run. 

Some fancy to be four times May'r, 
And shine in Magisterial glare ; 
While some erect their shop 
* The number of the Town Council. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 133 

O'er Hotwell-springs, monopolise, 
And retail at their own Excise, 
Heaven's bounty — drop by drop. 

Who tills his own paternal grounds, 

No bribe would tempt of scores of pounds 

To quit his clods of earth ; 
And sailor climb the giddy mast, 
Tho' seas were calm, nor skies overcast, 

Nor take the Middy's berth. 

The Merchant, lying snug in bed 
At country villa hears overhead 

The storm that wrecks his ship, 
Resolves no more to tempt the main — 
But, conquered by his love of gain, 

He tries another trip. 

One flies to war, a butchering trade, 
To India and Burmese stockade, — 

What's glory done for him ? 
That, unlike son of sober cits, 
He frights his mother into fits, 

With loss of life or limb. 

The squire delights in stall and stud, 
To scamper over field and flood, 

Nor fears the morning fogs ; 
Leaves wife at home to groan and grunt, 
While he is for the Berkeley Hunt, — 

And so goes to the dogs. 



134 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

You take your pleasure Mr. May'r 

In learned research with Mr. Seyer ;* 

Perchance you gild his pen ; 
Or issue magisterial nod, 
As if you were a demi-god, 

Amongst us little men. 

Me rock and bower, and chequered shade 
Of pleasant Leigh seclude from trade, 

Ship^s traffic, mobs and swine ; 
Satyrs and nymphs in dreams to cite, 
Not Satires, those I never write, 

As no concern of mine. 

And, Mr. May'r, if due regard 
For verse should dub me City Bard, 

Supremely pensioned, soon 
With head sublime Fd touch the sky, 
And lift my lanthorn up on high, 

The very Man'themoon. 

(July 1, 1826.) 

* The Rev. Samuel Seyer was the Master of a Classical School, 
in Bristol, at which many of the Corporation and their sons were 
educated, but its members never had the gratitude to present him 
to one of their livings. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 135 

ODE VI.— LIB. 1. 

m &grtppam. 

Sir Richard*, let the Mercury tell 
Your bravery, when your constable 

Routed the dancing crew ; 
Or how you grew supremely big, 
And gave a plumper to a Whig, 

And turn'd your back on Blue. 

My muse no serious theme admits, 
Not e'en the bloodless fight of cits, 

Of Hillhouse and of FRipp.f — 
How one was of a mighty mould. 
And scorned to yield, how one could hold 

In either course his ship. — 

Nor how the house of Protheroe 
Caught fire, blazed fierce, and then like tow 

As suddenly went out. — 
Things all as much above my pen 
As Daniel in the Lion's den; 

Who dares the praise to spout 

Of Bright, not quite so bright, who must 
Be soiled with laying down some dust ? 
Or DavisJ like a king 

* Sir Richard Vaughan, Knight and Alderman, 
•j- Both Aldermen ; one a ship builder, and the other in the 
soap and tallow trade. They were near coming to a duel. 
X The popular Tory for the City for many years. 



136 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

Under his canopy of blue, 
Wisdom and Virtue's Stedfast hue, 
Not I, I can but sing 

Of maiden romps whose nails are cut, 
And balls where no grim bailiff's strut 

As sportive as I may ; — 
Or burn my fingers, if I list, 
Neither at shorts or vulgar whist, 

But where the Muses play, 



ODE I.— LIB. 3. 
<&fci ^rofanum Fulgus. 

TO GEORGE CUMBERLAND, ESQ.* 

Away ye vulgar, small and great, 
Whether in rags or silk and ermine, 

Priest of the sacred Muse, I hate 
The sordid minds that designate 
But larger vermin. 

The Palace of the Forty rings 

With shout, and summons magisterial 
There Ludlow midst these petty Kings 

His supercilious mandate flings 
With air imperial. 

* An intimate friend of Mr. Eagles. 



OR, HORACE IN BRISTOL. 137 

Some sport in wider fields of Law, 
Attend the Courts, and study Cases, 

And lie on Bridgnorth* lays his paw, 
While three more Cities struck with awe 
Offer him places. 

Though thousand Clients more repair 
With liberal fees to Smith and Bumpas, 

There is another Court elsewhere, 

Where Death will make all right and square 
By rule and compass. 

With a mandamus o'er his head, 
Tho' civic tables groan with turtle, 

The May'r can scarcely eat for dread, 

Nor smile at festive board or bed 

; Mid song and myrtle. 

Sleep that shuns Mansion, Hall and Park, 
Alderman, Sheriff, and Churchwarden, 

Will not disdain the Parish Clerk 
That tills to song of modest lark, 
His rood of garden. 

The man who thinks enough a feast, 
Like Cumberland content possessing, 

Dines joyous tho' the wind be East, 
Not thankless if sometimes a Priest 
Bestow the blessing. 

* In allusion to Sergeant Ludlow's unsuccessful attempt to get 
into Parliament. 



138 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

Little cares he for fall of Stocks, 

Reduced Consols, or trade and traffic, 

'Mid Leigh's deep shades, by sheltering rocks, 
He converse holds with stones and stocks 
In language graphic. 

What more can wealth ! perhaps contest 
Both land and sea, and build to vary 

Life's tiresome scene, still Care a guest 
Goes to the new-built box at West- 
-on Super Mare. 

Fear climbs the painted wherry's sides 
And scarcely wets the cautious paddle ; 

Should the proud owner fear the tides, 
And mount his steed, Care with him rides 
On the same saddle. 

If, then, the man that's sick at heart, 
Wealth cannot tempt to artless frolic ; 

Nor costly wines from foreign mart 
Can cure one single twinge or smart 
Of gout or cholic ; 

Why should I change my haunts of Leigh, 
For civic halls and gowns and maces, 

Pleas'd with my crust and liberty, 
And Cumberland, and two or three 
Like pleasant faces ? 

(July 29, 1826.) 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 139 

ODE XVI.— LIB. 2. 

@fo €£rospf)um. 

4Mum Wibos rogat m patentu 

ADDRESSED TO FELIX FARLEY. 

Ease asks the Sailor in the wide Atlantic, 
Whilst o'er his head the storm is raving frantic, 
Hiding the moon and skies from the romantic 
Star gazing lover. 

Ease asks the Ranter in religious panic ; 
Ease asks the Miser tho' in fur Aldermanic ; 
Not to be bought with gold or puritanic 
Prate and grimaces. 

Gew-gaws nor sword can take away the twinges 
From the Mayor's mind, nor can he catch with springes 
Cares that like Imps are sporting round the fringes 
Of his fine chariot. 

Cumberland tells you little is enough for 
Him, that can dine on a chop and garden stuff, or 
Sleeps without care ; nor does he care a puff for 
Sordid ambition. 

Short is the life at best we are careering — 
Why to the east and west should we be steering ? 
Can our Friend Eden tho' a gondoliering 
Fly from the Vicar. 



140 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

Care scales the ship, gets packed in his portmanteau, 
Though like Don Juan, in Byron's wicked canto, 
At haste he ride from Calais to Otranto, 
Or by Veturino. 

Light be your heart, and smile if aught amiss is, 
Leaving to-morrow to its own caprices, 
Midst ills serene ; for such a life as this is 
Sure to be chequered. 

Age and disease have made an end of Bengo,* 
Alderman Senex is going where all men go, 
I may live to wear, tho' you may long ere then go, 
Laurel and pension. 

You live at Redland ; you may take your round, Sir, 
Ambling on your Cob about your velvet ground, Sir ; 
You at a moment may command a Hundred Pounds, Sir, 
Me, Felix Farley. 

Small tho' my rents, the Muse not unbenignant 
Blesses with Rhyme, and with a soul indignant 
Far above the proud, to lash the base malignant 
Arrogant vulgar. 

* Alderman Bengough. — He was a lawyer, and by his legal 
advice ruled the Members of the Corporation. He was also a very 
eccentric character. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 141 

ODE XIII.— LIB. 3. 
au jfontem 2Blantmsfum. 

Fount of St. Peter's Pump,* more clear 
Than Phoenix glass or Chequer's beer, 

Bright sparkling in the cup ; 
To-morrow at thy sacred well 
I'll sacrifice the constable, 

That comes to lock thee up. 

Tho' like a goat he run full butt 
His horns at every scolding slut, 

And threaten chain and lock, 
And raise his new acquired staff, 
And curse and swear, insult and laugh ; 

His blood shall stain thy cock. 

To thee in dog days cool, his crutch 
The beggar drops, and wonders much 

Heav'n's bounteous, Man unkind ; 
St. Peter's vagrants bring to thee 
Their kettles for consoling tea, 

The maim'd, the halt, the blind. 

Indeed thou art a noble spring, 
And shalt be so whilst I can sing,— 

Thou all the poor possess — 
Yes — I will praise thy brazen spout, 
That lets the gushing water out 

Impatient, but to bless. 

* One of several public pumps in Bristol for the supply of 
water; this is situated opposite to the "Workhouse of the City, 
called Saint Peter's Hospital. 



142 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

ODE I.— LIB. 7. 

Stfc ittunatfum pancum, OTonsularem. 

AN IMITATION. 

Some praise Mytiline, Thebes, Delphos, Mycene, 
Ephesus, two posted Corinth and Rhodes, 

Temple of Ephesus, nevertheless a lie, 
Lifting them up in magnificent odes. 

Some prate about Athens, then restless away thence, 
Like Byron, to show us his praise is in joke ; 

What he dares declare to, his shadow* will swear to, 
That the olive is better than Englishman's oak. 

And great Lady Morgan despising Kilcorgan, 
Flies off from the bogs, as the rival to Carrf ; 

But to me Lacedemon, with all that they dream on, 
Is stuff, and no Temple is like Temple Bar. 

If Argos for horses is fam'd, Charing Cross is ; 

I delight in the sweet flowing Thames and its pride ; 
That house which vain Hobhouse would fain make a 
mob-house, 

The fall at the Bridge, and the noise of Cheapside. 

Now the bright eye of morning is giving us warning, 
He will not for ever hide under a hood ; 

Nor has Bobadil Wilson, for ever his stilts on; 
Clear your tragedy face then friend Plankas or Wood. 

* Hobhouse. t Vide " My Pocket-book." 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 143 

No longer look doleful, as if with thy soul full, 
Shine brighter, lest fools make of Wisdom a mock; 

Whether now thou'rt at Como, consoling the Homo, 
Or at home with your spouse, and the chips of the 
block. 

Let your glass then be ample, and take an example, 
King George, when departing from Ireland and Pat, 

Took a glass of the native, of grief an abative, 
And is said to have taken new courage with that. 

As he stood by the Liny, and viewing his skiff, he 
Thus cried, " Sons of Erin, away from you fling 

Ail sorrow — for Hanover is but a span over, 

And wherever I am, Fm your friend and your King. 

And the glass Fve been drinking, persuades me 
while thinking, 

There's a port in all storms both for you and for me; 
Then off with your whiskey, and look with a brisk eye, 

To-day Fm for joy, and to-morrow for sea." 



ODE IX.— LIB. 4. 
1$i forte crtte mteritura. 

TO RICHARD. HART DAVIS, ESQ.* 

Think not these Rhymes of mine will die, 

That with new enterprize and art, 
I weave on antient Poesy ; 

* Mr. Davis sat for three Sessions in Parliament as the Tory 
Member for the City. 



144 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

I, born in Avon's noisy mart, 
Unlike that Avon's gentle stream, 
Where Shakespeare dreamt his wildest dream. 

Tho' Southey take the epic chair, 
And proudly wear his laurel crown, 

Impassioned Byron can we spare, 

Or rend from Scott his own renown ? 

Shall Wordsworth from his lake and fell 

Unheeded sound his graver shell. 

Simple in virtue's strength and terse, 
Shall nervous Gifford e'er in vain 

Pour his indignant flood of verse, 
Flush' d with a bold yet just disdain ? 

Will Scotia's Shepherd Bard unknown 

Pipe wildly to his mountains lone ? 

While Pity yet one chord can strike, 
That thrills in gentle souls and brave, 

Elton, thy verse shall move alike 

The old, the young, the gay, the grave. 

In Milman, from their sainted shroud, 

Shall blood of Martyrs cry aloud ! 

Time cannot touch Anacreon Moore, 
E'en the light trifles of thy lyre, 

And less than Angels shall adore, 
That burn with an unholy fire ; — 

Thy very fame shall live, and Brown 

And Little stab thy fair renown. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 145 

Pure thoughts that chastest virtues breath, 
And trust to Heman's feeling page, 

Shall live in many a beauteous wreath, 
Meet garlands for a purer age ; 

To softest, kindest, bosoms dear, 

Graced with her Ivy* never sere. 

Full many a Helen's Love has blazM 

The ruin of an unknown Troy ; 
And many a brighter Helen raised 

The Claymore for her faithful Roy : 
Was Lady Heron first to fling 
Her charms around a Scottish King ? 

The heroes of the Trojan tale — 

Were they the first that javelins cast ? 

Roderick to wear the Spanish Mail, 
Or say was Marmion's death the last ; 

How many fond brave Hectors fall ! 

Or say, is Homer's Hector all ? 

How many brave have hVd and died 

Long before Agamemnon, who 
The countless dead have sanctified 

From Siege of Troy to Waterloo ? 
The bulk are but a nameless throng, 
Reft of the sacred meed of song. 

One endless night oppresses all, 

Save whom the living Voice of Bard 
Shall to their thrones of glory call — 
* Vide Her address to the Ivy. 



146 



The virtue that we disregard 
Has but the recompense of sloth, 
One long oblivion buries both. 

Thee then, the people's choice, arrayed 

In conscious worth, poetic lay, 
Davis, shall lift above the shade 

And silence of our little day ; 
Come weal or woe, firm, staunch, and true, 
Thou wilt the perfect path pursue. 

Thou dost despise the fraud, the pride, 
That does the sordid man advance ; 

Canst smile at wealth's presumptuous stride, 
And all its vulgar arrogance ; 

Not once alone the people's choice. 

But oft, as with an honest voice. 

They scorned the bribe, and greatly proud, 
Despising meaner interests flew, 

To raise above th' opposing crowd, 
Their trophies of triumphant blue. — 

Bless' d is the man, when Heav'n's profuse, 

That wisely knows the gifts to use ; 

The scorns of poverty can bear 

Erect, and patiently sublime 
Can even death or torture dare, 

Dare all, but shudders at a crime. 
That man, at friend's or country's call 
Will live, or like a hero fall. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 147 

ODE VIII.— LIB 4. 
air <&. JWarttum tosounum. 

TO JOHN KING, ESQ.* 

Pd give my friends fine cups of gold, 
Or vases Herculaneum ware, 

That might perchance Ealemian hold, 
Dear King, had I such things to spare, 
Nor should' st thou have the smaller share. 

Had I the works of Bippingille, 

Could buy them, borrow, beg, or thieve, 

Or Bayly's, who with Sculptor skill, 
Can cut an Alderman or Eve, — 
Not so as thou would'st cut believe; 

Fd freely give them all, but not 
One costly thing have I to send ; 

Nor can I buy, who scarce have got 

Three farthings more than what I spend, 
Nor boast one single patron, friend. 

Besides, thy house is full and rich 

With gems, sketch, painting, drawing, print, 

And thine own works ; there's one too which 
I covet, for 'tis worth a mint. 
And there's macaw, no neutral tint. 

* Mr. King was an eminent surgeon, practising at Clifton, and 
one of the most intimate friends of Mr. Eagles. His love of art 
led him much to cultivate the friendship of artists. His literary- 
attainments were also very extensive. He loved truth, honest 
truth, in all its integrity — thought it, spoke it, practised it. 



148 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

What ! have I nothing then to give ? 
Yes, Verse ! and thou wilt prize the gift, 

And I be proud, for that may live 
When we are gone, thy name to lift 
Above the names of sordid thrift. 

And what can mortals raise like verse ! — 
Is't half thy due, if it should please 

Whom thou hast sav'd from pall and hearse, 
To give thee nothing but thy fees ? 
Small recompense for boons like these. 

The ready hand and heart, the eye 
Of pity, genius strong, yet fine — 

Verse will not suffer these to die ! 
And King it shall not suffer thine, 
While the poor bless, and Verse is mine. 

Verse, like the starry gem that set 

In Heaven's broad forehead blazing bright, 

Beams of that rest where souls are met, 
When sinks the wreck to endless night, 
Can spread abroad a guardian light. 

; Tis like the faith that fears not death, 
*Tis like the wing of gentle dove, 

it is like the Heavenly breath, 
That welcomes sainted souls above 
To feasts of everlasting love. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 149 

ODE XXIX.— LIB. 1. 
&& Jccwm. 

TO FRANK GOLD, ESQ., ON HIS GOING TO INDIA. 

Friend Gold, I dreamM not thou would'st flee 
To pluck the curs' d Pagoda Tree, 
And fill thy pockets with rupee 
Full many a lack ; — 

That thou would' st twist the iron noose 
For Burmese and the poor Hindoos — 
What Prince hast thou to black thy shoes, 
From Bhurtpoor's sack ? 

Hast thou thy slave great Ava's Queen, 
To make thy bed or bear thy screen, 
Or Donjun Saul thy Palanquin ? 
If such things are, 

We might expect St. Vincent's rocks 
To tumble down and fill our docks, 
Or Cits transfer their wealth in stocks 
To me or Seyer. 

If thou could'st quit thy friends, thy books, 
And what thy genius lov'd, those nooks 
Where nature thee with sweetest looks 
Full oft did hold;— 



150 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

Haunts where we sketched our fragrant springs, 
Our winter evening's chat at King's, 
thou didst promise better things — 
Alas ! friend Gold. 



ODE 20. — LIB. 1. 
®ts Jfteecenatem. 

TO REV. JOHN EDEN, WITH INVITATION VILE POTABIS, 

In Curate's house you must not think, 
Or Chateau Margeaux Wines to drink, 
Or bright Champagne, or white or pink, 
And play the Vicar. 

The orchards round the Vicarage 
Supply our homely beverage 
Yet wholesome — and, let's see — its age — 
We cask'd the liquor. 

When you in Park Street read aloud, 
Your Tour* to an applauding crowd, 
And echo grew jocosely proud 
And took the story. 

Up to the Moon, whose man you praise, 
Illumin'd with his lanthorn's rays — 
The drink is pure, in village phrase 
The Parson's glory. 

* Mr. Eden had recently returned from a tour in Italy. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 151 

ODE XXL— LIB. 3. 

an ampfioram. 

<& nata mtcum (ZDonsuk Jftanlto. 

TO MY CASK OF CYDER. 

When Neighbour Manley was Churchwarden , 

Cask, thou wer't filFd from choicest fruit 
Of one small orchard and a garden, 

That always stood in good repute. 

Thou must a good occasion suit ; 

To keep within thee strife and bruit. 

For such as thou art oft encloses 

A genius of ungentle sap, 
That deals in cuffs and bloody noses, 

And broken pates from oaken rap — 

And female noise and tumbled cap ; 

When uncooth hands the liquor tap. 

Fd have thee like the antient Massic, 
Generous, that Horace prizM so much ; 

And let thy wit and taste be classic — 
He'll not despise thee, honest Gutch, 
If thou dost boast thy flavour such ; 
Tho J with Socratic gripe he clutch 



152 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

Our charters, like old Cato Major : 
Nor does grave Dr. Good-enough, 

When tiresome grows old Tully's page, or 
His boys are dull, or Greek is tough, 
Refuse his glass of prime old stuff, 
Always remembering " quantum suff. v 

genius of the generous liquor ! 

Keep down the bad within the dregs ; — 

Thou mak'st our wit to sparkle quicker, 
Thou lowerest gravity some pegs, 
And if of thee a draught he begs, 
Thou sett'st the poor man on his legs ; 

Holding him out his cornu-copia, 
And mapp'st him out a large estate 

In thy dominions of Utopia. — 

Thou mak'st the Curate scorn the prate 
Of coarse Lord King, and all his hate ; 
More fit for ale-house than debate. 

Thee three administering Graces 
Shall usher sparkling to our sight ; 

With aprons clean and shining faces ; 
And if 'tis far advanc'd in night, 
Maninthemoon shall hold the light, 
And trim his lanthorn clear and bright. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 153 

ODE XXVIII.— LIB. 1. 
®e man's et terra. 

COURTNEY LOQUITUR. 

Poor Courtney !* Measurer of both skies and land ! 
Alas ! what boots it thou hast sped 
From the tall cliff down to the river's bed, 
With geometrical precision ; 
If now thou lackest aid of friendly hand, 

Thy broken wings to bind, 
And help thee once again to raise the wind: 

If thy ambition 
Must stoop to fate that comes to cut thy thread ; — 
Alas ! alas ! thy rope is slack, 
And thou art laid upon thy back ; 
Like Captain Parry thou hast had thy fall 
Too near the Pole ; 
And dash'd thy ribs in at the very goal ; 
And now art laid up in this Hospital. 
All thy vast hopes 
Must now decline. 
Thou wer't too much on thy high ropes, 
Building thy house and castles in the air, 

* " On Monday, Courtney, the flying man, made another exhibi- 
tion of flying across the river; he descended from Leigh Wood 
to an anchor sunk in the stream ; but, owing to some mismanage- 
ment, he struck his head violently as he came down, and he was 
conveyed to the Infirmary in a state of insensibility. He is expected 
to recover." — Felix Farley's Journal, Aug. bth, 1826. 



154 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

Since thou hadst none elsewhere. 
Alas ! thou never more wilt cross the line, 

The wise, the vigorous — 
All that like me have trod unearthly ways, 
Have had untimely end. As Ovid says, 
One Icarus 

Was first in a balloon to fly 
Up, till it crossed bright Phoebus in the sky, 

Who with a sunbeam struck it, 

Upset, and made poor Icarus kick the bucket. — 
What viewless space does Peter SchlemiFs* ghost 

Inhabit, who in dismal dole, 

' ( Wafted a sigh from Indus to the Pole" ? 
He, shadowless, where shadows rule the roast, 
Went with precipitous haste, a Great Unknown, 

Tossed like a shuttlecock from Earth to Styx 

And back again ; the shades disdained to mix 
With one who brought them nought but skin and bone : 

Wherefore they sent him back again, anon 
The living skeleton. 
Where now is Jones ?f 

Where is Tom Paine, that took a flight 

u Far into chaos and black night ", 
And finds no rest for his old lying bones, 

That Cobbett stole, and, like a beast, 

Stews for blaspheming mobs a horrid feast. — 

* Vide that interesting publication. f Vide also Peter Schlemil. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 155 

Some fall on land, and some at sea are lost, 
Thus every way we're crossed. 
Sky-sweeping Pilot Graham, thee I pray 
Pity thy brother Aeronaut 
Thus miserably caught — 
And if too late to save — 
Kindly, at least, my funeral charge defray ; 
Attend with weeping eyes, 
And kindly throw some dust upon my grave ; 
" So shalt thou be translated to the skies." 
So when aloft thou sail, 
Nor gas, nor gentle breezes fail 
To bear thee safe from ill, 
From the wide sea, or shock 
'Gainst gnarled oak or jutting rock ; 
And gaping multitudes thy pockets fill : 
If thou neglect me, by the Fates, 
Such an untoward fall thyself awaits. 
But if thou view'st the act a debt 
Due to a brother, not as yet 
Am I in state for credit or long trust : 
And if thy speed 
Be urgent, e're thy chair 
Thou mountest, now commence the friendly deed — 

Down with thy dust, 
Then cut thy cords light-wafted in the air. 

(October 21, 1826.) 



156 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

EPODON II.— LIB 5. 
Meatus file, qui procul ntgottfs. 

Happy the man that's free from care, 
And ploughs his own paternal acres ; 

Strong as our old forefathers were, 

Nor meets the job-enquiring stare 
Of dismal city undertakers. 

Little dreads he the week's Gazette, 

He hears unmov'd the tempest rattle ; 
No policies his dreams beset, 
Nor call of lancers makes him sweat, 
Or at the festive ball or battle. 

He seeks no routs, where city Dames 

Play matrimonial speculation, 
Content with vegetable flames 
He weds his cucumbers in frames, 

"Watching their harmless propagation. 

He loves to see his ewes and rams 
Feed in his sloping verdant valley, 

Not such as villain painter shams 

A gilded daub, nor like the lambs 

That frisk and play in street and alley. 

When Autumn fruits begin to drop 

He courts no ghosts, like foolish Durban,* 

* Vide his account of Lawford-gate Ghosts, and those interesting 
creatures Molly and Dobby. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 157 

Content his trees to graft and lop, 
And leaves the " Times " to Dr. Slop ; 
A fig for old Sylvanus Urban. 

Sometimes he sleeps on grassy bed 
Under the oak, by murmuring river, 

To song of bird with bosom red, 

Without a kerchief round his head ; 
Or flannel to protect his liver. 

On winter morns, e're crow of cock, 
He boldly rides ten miles to cover ; 

Or takes the field with double Nock, 

Or Manton's new percussion lock — 
Oh ! life to cure a whimpering lover ! 

And if his house and board to bless, 
A sweet good wife, best gift of Heaven, 

Welcome him home, whose prattlers press 

About his knees (such wives I guess 
Are in the sunny vales of Devon). 

If such, as I have known, prepare 

The blazing hearth, and barn door pullet, 

And gooseberry wine, by housewife care 

Like nectar, faith, he well may spare 
The costly turtle, char, and mullet ; 

And oyster feasts of Bears* that laugh 
O'er rich liqueurs from Ind to Helder, 
* A Club of the Literati of Bristol. 



158 



That do not please one's palate half 
So much as home-made wines we quaff 
From berry of delicious elder. 

For that gives birth to social glee, 

And is an excellent stomachic ; 
And balm and sage make wholesome tea, 
As good as Souchong or Bohea, 

To charm the aged or rheumatic. 

And sometimes he too has his feast, 

As should he find a fox and bag it, 
And find a fine fat goose ; at least 
When Christmas has from toil released 
His hinds about the ashen faggot. 

All this was said by Mercer stiff — 

He takes his farm upon the Channel — 

— But finding Squiralty An If, 

He quits his villa in a miff, 

And buys fresh stock of tapes and flannel. 



ODE III.— LIB 4. 
<&uem tu, JEUIpomene, semel. 

Muse, He, on whom thy gentle eye 
Has beamed a blessing at his birth, 

Will not a Pugilist defy, 

Nor fell his brother man to earth ; 

Nor win the Swell's uncivil crown 

By knocking tuneful Watchmen down. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 159 

The Fancy, that is all his joy 

Will never break another's nob ; 
The Muse's own white-headed boy 

Will never be white-headed Bob. 
Nor when he writes an Ode to Spring, 
Is it the Champion of the Ring. 

He will not make with bully Hunt 

Triumphant entry, lie, defame, 
And while the Members bear the brunt 

The far too patient County shame, 
That see him scorn, abuse, and threat 
The humbled Kings of Somerset. 

Him, deep embowering woods of Leigh 

In sweet sequestered fairy nook, 
Will nurse in dreams of poesy, 

And Avon or some silvery brook 
Shall various flow of Verse inspire, 
That changes like iEolian Lyre. 

And, this great City, proud and vast, 

Has placed me on the Poet's list, 
And dropp'd the stone she would have cast, 

And Envy's turned my Eulogist. 
0, Muse, that from thy golden shell, 
Cans't make the Music fall and swell ; 



160 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

0, thou could'st make the mute mute fish, 
Their swan-like minstrelsy to fling 

As they expire around the dish, 
And lobsters as they boil to sing ; 

And rhyming Nymphs upon the Back* — 

To welcome in each fishing smack. 

0, Muse, 'tis all thy gracious boon, 
If fingers point at me sometimes, 

As they should say, "Maninthemoon, 
The Author of our Latin Rhymes." 

0, if one single line can please, 

'Tis thine, and thou inspirest these. 

ODE XXVI.— LIB 1. 
&& ^eltum ULamtam. 

Lov'd by the Muse, what care have I, 
Let sorrow on her wing of raven, 

To solitary Lundy fly, 

Or float away on wave of Avon. 

Tho' Ludlow, like an autocrat, 

Threaten the knout — care I for that ? 

Tho* Bright' s electioneering billf 

Should make him fear too forward tongue, 

* A Bristol Street, 
t Written soon after a Bristol Election. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 161 

Why let the gall'd jade wince, for still 

Thank Heav'n, our withers are unwrung. 
! thou, sweet Muse, that with thy trump, 
Hast deigned to praise St. Peter's Pump ! 

Would'st free St. Vincent's prison' d spring, 
That should a bounteous course pursue ; 

Muse, all thy choicest flowrets bring 
To weave a garland for True Blue ; 

And let each Sister Muse unite 

HeavVs tints to make that garland bright. 



ODE XX.— LIB. 2. 
an ifttonatem. 

I shall not rise on feeble wing, 

I soar, my spirits upward spring — 

The liquid air, the liquid air ! 
I feel the summons to the Moon 
To quit this envious City soon, 

Its spite, its turmoil, cark and care. 

I am not sprung from vulgar birth — 
And were it so, my Farley's friend 

Should not be clogg'd with sordid earth, 
Nor have a common nameless end. 



162 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

The feathers round my shoulders spread- 
They fan, they flap above my head ; 

A bird, a bird, with plumage white — ■ 
Another Icarus I fly 
Beyond the reach of mortal eye, 

Of HerschePs telescopic sight. 

Yet ere I rest on Cynthia's orb, 
111 take my pastime in my way ; 

Southward will solar heat absorb, 
Then cool in Baffin's frozen bay. 

Fll flutter over Timbuctoo 

And course the envious Niger through, 

111 drop a feather at the Pole, 
Which Parry shall be sent to get, 
A gem for England's Cabinet, 

Then, singing, reach my Lunar Goal. 



And spare ye Cits the dubious tear, — 
Some vain regrets my flight shall save;- 

You need not raise a costly bier, 
Nor spend a farthing on my grave. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 163 

ODE XXII. — LIB. 1. 

gfo arfstmm Jpuscum. 
Integer bftee, scelensque puros. 

The man whose heart is sound at core, 
Whose honest to the very marrow, 

Needs not the wit of Tommy Moore, 
Nor perter Jeffery's poisoned arrow. 

Whether he tread the uncouth strand 
In Nootka Sound, or wild Killarney 

Receive him in that fabulous land, 
Where wilder Irish get their blarney. 

For musing late in greenwood shade 
Of Leigh, on fairy haunt and revel, 

I met a Warrener, with spade 

And pick, who fled as from the devil. 

Poacher, he cried, but dar'd not stand, 
But hurried to his sylvan hovel — 

Unarmed, Pd but some Rhymes in hand, 
And what were they against a shovel. 

The brute was six feet three at least, 
No bum intent his horrid thrift on 

Was ever seen so great a beast, 
Not e'en the constable of Clifton. 



164 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

Put me to dwell where trees are black 
In Marsh -street, by the noisome river, 

On torrid St. Augustine's Back, 

Where stench and heat consume the liver. 

In Jail, in Newgate, far from chimes 
Of bells, shut out from friendly parley, 

I'd bribe the Jailor with my Rhymes, 
And send by post to Felix Farley. 



ODE XI. — LIB. 2. 

an <&. f^irpmum. 

<&ufo 23tlItcosus ©antafor n Sbcgtjjes, 

What tho* thy son, that wild Cantab, 
With disobedience systematic, 

Should drive his tandem or his cab, 
Or coast the distant Adriatic, 

Vex not thy heart with constant care, 

And toil to get, yet hate to spare. 

We all forget we once were boys ; 

The frosty foot of age will creep, 
Whiten our heads and steal our joys ; 

Then farewell Love, and easy sleep, 
That er'st uncourted seaPd our eyes, 
But to new worlds of extacies. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 165 

Flowers fade before us like a dream : 
The Moon has but a waning light ; 

And He the Man therein supreme 

Not always shows his lanthorn bright, 

Changing his glass for duller horn — 

Come then, heart-eating sorrow scorn. 

While yet we may, here let us sit 
Under this plane-tree and the rose ; 

This glass will charm and cheer our wit, 
And this will bid our cares repose ; 

Boy, bring a bumper of Champaigne, 

'Twill bring us back ten years again. 

And joyous Julia, chaste eighteen, 
With parted lips and braided hair, 

And laughing eye, shall be the Queen 
Of this our bower, and touch an air 

Of chivalrous charm and gladsome mirth, 

To lift us 'bove the sordid earth. 



ODE III.— LIB. 1. 
gfo Natmm qua bejjtfjatut FtrgfKus. 

TO THE SHIP THAT CONVEYED MY FRIEND BODENHAM. 

The Emerald Isle, the Emerald Isle !* 
May beauty walk thy deck and smile 
Like Venus rising from the sea ; 
* Steam packet. 



166 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

May brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, 
Take fancies to aquatic jaunts, 

And trust their precious souls to thee. 

May every blast be hushed more rough 
Than Felix Farley's friendly puff 

To help thee gently on thy way, 
So thou waft Bodenham o'er the brine, 
His better half, and both halves mine, 

From Cork or Dublin's beauteous bay. 

That man was not devoid of brass, 
That had the impudence to pass 

The Channel first in slender smacks, 
Bold as an Aberdeen M.D. 
That fearless takes a death degree, 

That game certificate of Quacks. 

Who saw the Holmes both steep and flat, 
And cared no more than for a sprat, 

For monstrous porpoises and sharks, 
And heart of oak in soul and plank, 
Dash'd by, nor fear'd misfortune's prank, 

The horrid Bishop and his Clerks.* 

. In vain Heaven's hand omnipotent 
Hath land from land asunder rent, 

* Rocks in the Channel. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 167 

And stretched dissociable seas; 
If impious packets voyage there, 
What will not man audacious dare ! 

Since taught forbidden fruit to seize. 

Since Franklin first brought down red hot 
TV electric fire on rods, and Watt 

Bade steam come hissing into birth ; 
Our brains are wilder' d, gas and steam, 
Fever and frenzy, maniac scheme, 

All brood like nightmares on the earth. 

Upon forbidden wings we rise, 
Cherubs self-made affect the skies; 

Grace and necessity impel. 
And S. S. Huntingdonians map 
Out Heaven amongst themselves, and snap 

Their fingers at the name of Hell — 

Nought is too hard, we scale Heaven's height 
In folly, and thence hurl in spite 

Dire vengeance down on all beside — 
Our crimes forbid th' uplifted hand 
Of wrath above our guilty land 

To turn the thunder bolt aside. 



168 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

ODE XXXL— LIB. 1. 
m Spollfoem. 

What does the Poetaster ask of his Apollo 

Down the sanctum of his throat when he pours 
his liquor, 
Not a thousand measures more of w T heat than he can 
swallow, 
Nor the tythes of Halberton owing to the Vicar ; 

Nor neighbour Webber's good fat beeves far and 
wide lowing, 
Nor from his well-stow'd granary more than will 
just suffice of it ; 
Nor asks he of the River Exe through rich pastures 
flowing, 
From this or t'other fine estate to cut him off a 
slice of it. 

Blest be he for whom with wealth freighted every 
wind is, 
Whom fortune favours with her gifts, not to his 
prayers obdurate; 
Let the Merchant quaff in wine from either Indies, 
I can quaff my good home-brew'd altho' I'm but 
the Curate. 

Let him toil and let him care, cross the wide Atlantic, 
All for what ! in civic feasts to gormandize on 
turtle ! ! ! 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 169 

Me far other things delight — green retreat romantic, 
For ruby rich and emerald green, the fragrant 
rose and myrtle. 

Apollo grant me but content and I am well rewarded ; 

Health to escape " d d Doctor's fees" or broken 

bones or bruises ; 
And since old age will come apace let not my mind 
grow sordid, 
And grant to cheer my soul, or one or t'other of 
the Muses. 



ODE XXXVIII. — LIB. 1. 

®Xi jWfnfstrum. 

Amicus .otri, puer, apparatus. 

Go, boy, and buy a penny roll ; 

I would'nt give a straw for turtle, 
Or painted Hall with arms and scroll, 
And plate emboss'd ; an earthen bowl 

Will serve me in my bower of myrtle. 

The lilac for our canopy 

(No fretted flowery dome engraven) 
Will not disgrace, boy, you nor me, 
Whilst there we sit and quaff our tea, 

In bower beneath the Rocks of Avon. 



170 FARLEIANA HORATIANA, 

ODE XXX.— LIB. 3. 
IBxegi monumtntum mz pEremu'us. 

Fve built a monument of brass 
High as the lofty Pyramid, 
These Odes, that shall survive amid 
The wreck of time, when ages pass, 
And graves shall hide their countless mass. 

I shall be read from civic chair, 

While oyster wenches hold their clack, 
And constables shall keep them back ; 
Lest they disturb the spouting Mayor, 
At his proud Mansion in the Square. 

Tasso was sung by Gondolier ; 

So sailors on the busy float 

Shall sing my rhymes from boat to boat, 
And Peter's Poor and Pump shall hear 
That Ode, that made the waters clear. 

Me Parish Liberty and Ward 

Shall prize above their Book of Horn; 
And call me, for I there was born, 
A second Avon's only Bard — 
Rise Muse and claim thy due reward. 



HORACE IN BRISTOL. 171 

Assert thine own prerogative,, 

In civic honor bind my brow 

With the Bristolian Laurel now, 
And let the May'r whilst yet I live 
His blessing and a pension give. 



HOMER'S HIMNS 



For the reasons given in the Introduction, the 
Editor has printed the two following translations by 
Mr. Eagles of Homer's Hymns. He regrets they 
are so few ; but the insertion of more would have 
extended the Garland far beyond the limits usually 
assigned to such a publication. Every classical 
scholar cannot fail to appreciate their beauty and 
their adherence to the spirit of the originals. 



HOMER'S HYMNS 



®&e Pern of $an. 

Sing me a song about Pan, 

Cloven-foot Capricorn, son 
And darling of Hermes ; who frisking it ran 

O'er woody cragg'd Pisa, in fun, 
And frolic, and laughter, with skipping nymphs after 

Him shouting out — Pan — Pan. 

Pan, merry musical Pan, 

Piping o'er mountainous top, 
Rough-headed, shaggy, and rusty like tan, 

Dancing where'er the goats crop, 
The precipice round, as his hoofs strike the ground, 

With their musical clop — clop. 

Pan is the lord of the hills, 

With their summits all cover'd with snow ; 
Pan is lord of the brooks, of the rivers, and rills, 

That murmur in thickets below ; 
There he saunters along, and listens their song, 

And bends his shagg'd ears as they flow. 



THE POEM OF PAN. 173 

Where the goats seem to hang in the air, 

And the cliffs touch the clouds with their jags, 
Sometimes he hurries and leaps here and there, 

Skipping o'er white-shining crags ; 
And quick to descry, with his keen searching eye, 

Bounds after the swift-footed stags. 

Pan drives before him the flocks, — 

To shades of cool caverns he takes, 
And gathers them round him ; and under deep rocks 

Of the reeds his new instrument makes ; 
And with out-piping lips he blows into their tips, 

And the spirit of melody wakes. 

Pan mighty wonders achieves 

With his capriciosos, preferred 
To the honey-tongu'd nightingale, hid in the leaves 

When her out-pouring 'plaining is heard. 
For Pan, sweet musician, with grace and precision, 

Pipes far sweeter notes than the bird. 

As the swift-footed nymphs round the fountains 

Encircle the dark -welling spring, 
And mock-loving echo bears off to the mountains 

And throws back the music they sing — 
Sly Pan he comes peeping, and daintily creeping 

Adroitly bounds into the ring. 

O'er his back is the skin of the lynx, 
And he leads with a pleasant constraint 



174 



The nymphs to a soft meadow perfumed with pinks 

That the crocus and hyacinth paint ; 
And there he rejoices in all their sweet voices, 

Rehearsing their chronicles quaint. 

They sang of Olympus the blest, 

And the Gods in that Heavenly hall, 
And of Hermes Inventor, much more than the rest, 

Who was chosen the herald of all. 
How seeking Cyllene, his own fair demesne, he 

Drove goats as a goatherd to stall. 

Upon Arcady's stream-gushing rocks 

Descended, he chanced to behold 
As he went into service, and tended the flocks, 

Fair Dryope's tresses of gold ; 
And the passion excited was duly requited, 

For she too was not very cold. 

She bore him a wonderful son, 

Goat-footed, Capricorn rough, 
With a strange visage curFd into laughter and fun, 

And indeed it was frightful enough : 
For the nurse, in dismay, ran shrieking away, 

When she saw the babe bearded and bluff. 

But Hermes he dandled the boy, 
And thought him the merriest imp, 
He feathered his ankles with infinite joy, 
For he was not the godhead to limp : 



THE POEM OF PAN. 175 

Then he wrapt him up snug in a hare-skin rug, 
And away he went up to Olymp. 

Jupiter sat not alone, 

But his time with his deities whiPd, 
When Hermes arrived and sat down at his throne, 

Looked round to their worships and smiFd, 
Then his bundle untied, and pleasantly cried, 

" Look ye all at my beautiful child \" 

Raptures affected the gods, 

(On earth we should say to a man) 
And Bacchus the most ; winks, gestures, and nods 

Put in motion the whole divan. 
'Twas a * panto-mime to the gods sublime, 

So they gave him the name of Pan. 

Pan, Pan, merry Pan — 

Pan, the dispenser of mirth, 
With thy horn, and thy hoof, and complexion of tan, 

Still deign to visit this earth. 
And thy praise shall be long, though short is the song, 

That has told of thy wond'rous birth. 

* Because he pleased ravi, saith the original. — All being no 
play on the word Pan, I have chosen a word that has, and perhaps 
somewhat expresses the same idea. 



176 



®i)z 23allafc of 23accfms. 



Of the son of the glorious Semele 

Is a wondrous tale to tell, 
How he lay on the shore of the boundless sea, 

On a rock by the billows swell ; 
In the very spring-tide of youth was he 

When beauty doth most excel. 

Round his ample breast was a purple vest, 

And his locks of the raven shade, 
Floated behind to the gentle wind, 

And over his shoulders played ; 
And there came in view a roving crew, 

That follow 1 d the pirate's trade. 

And they were Tuscan mariners, 

Bold pirates every one, 
And ill-betoken' d their evil stars, 

When their cruizing was begun ; 
Though the bark was tight, and bounded light 

To the coast as they did run. 

And they spied the youth, as they plough'd the brine, 

Drew near and planned surprise ; 
And with nod and wink, and speechless sign, 

His comrade did each advise ; 
And blessing the ship for a gainful trip, 

LeapM over and seized the prize. 



THE BALLAD OF BACCHUS. 177 

They deemed him a youth of noble race, 

And thought to bind him fast ; 
And they took him on board in little space, 

And cords about him cast — 
But away flew the bands from his feet and hands, 

Like chaff before the blast. 

Now the son of the glorious Semele 

All unconcerned he sat, 
And his dark eye shone most laughingly, 

But the Pilot was struck thereat, — 
And cried to his crew that around him drew, 

" My comrades, mark you that ! 

" Hold, hold ye, for this no mortal is, 

As you may plainly know, 
For a God is he, and strong, I wis, 

To work or weal or woe — 
Perchance 'tis Jove from his throne above, 

Or the god of the silver bow. 

" Or Neptune, maybe, stern god of sea — 

So celestial to behold : 
The planks of the ship from their ribs would slip, 

Ere imprison immortal mould ; 
For Olympian gods are fearful odds, 

That mortals should strive to hold. 



178 



" Turn ye the oar to the dark-edged shore, 

And the youth in safety land, 
And speed ye, before ye hear the roar 

Of a storm ye may not withstand — 
For beshrew me if his wrath he pour, 

'Twill be with a mighty hand." 

But the Captain stood in another mood, 
And spake as he would command : 

" Up to the gale with yard and sail, 
And talk not to me of land — 

Leave the youth to me, and away to sea, 
He shall visit a distant strand ; 

" Cyprus or Egypt, or farther away, 

To the Hyperborean coast, 
And mayhap by the way he'll find tongue to say 

What parentage he may boast, 
Their state and thrift, his fortune's gift, 

And of that we make the most \" 

Thus the Captain spake, the mast was placed, 

Up went the yard and sail, 
And not a rope but was tightly braced, 

As it fill'd before the gale. 
But how shall I tell what next befel, 

And with wonders fill my tale. 



THE BALLAD OF BACCHUS. 179 

Odours were first of the luscious vine, 

Fresher than honied banks, 
And a stream divine of ambrosial wine 

Trickled about the planks — 
But the mariner's cheer was checked by fear, 

That they could not give it thanks. 

Then a vine-tree rose and tendrills flung 

The sail and sailyard round, 
And wherever they clung rich clusters hung, 

And the mask dark ivy bound, 
That twined about, and the berries stood out, 

For much they did abound. 

The rests wherein their oars they plied, 

Each one a garland bore, 
Then the staring mariners stoutly cried 

To the Pilot to steer to shore. 
Then a lion across the deck did stride 

And horribly loud did roar. 

In midships he rose a rampant bear, 

And his shaggy hide he shook. 
Then a lion he from the prow did glare, 

And so deadly was his look, 
That the frightened crew to the stern they flew 

And each his place forsook ; 



180 



And round the Pilot in fear did cling, 

For he was the best of the crew ; 
Then the Lion-God glared, and with one spring 

The caitiff Captain slew ; 
From the side of the ship, with plunge and slip, 

Into the sea they flew. 

As the mariners plunged into the sea, 
They were all of them Dolphins made ; 

But the son of the glorious Semele 
Alone the Pilot staid, 

The man blest he from his terror free, 
And pleasantly to him said — 

" Courage, my friend, stand firm above, 

A worthy part was thine; 
The offspring of Jove and Semele's love 

Am I, and the God of Wine ; 
Shouting and song to me belong, 

And the gift of the generous vine." 

" Hail, son of the beauteous Semele ! 

I know thee well, thou art 
Giver of Mirth and Revelry, 

To me sweet joys impart ; 
For the song of Bard, thou dost regard, 

Comes warmest from the heart." 



CHLORIS ASLEEP. 

(From the Carmina Lusoria, vide " Blackwood's 
Magazine," June, 1852.^ 



A relative and pupil of Mr. Eagles has earnestly 
requested the insertion of the following Lyric, which 
he translated into Latin. We give both versions. 
As a specimen of Mr. Eagles' s translations, main- 
taining the spirit of the original, and at the same 
time adhering to its diction, it is a splendid example 
of his transcendant genius and talent. The Editor 
has, without hesitation, made this addition to the 
Lyrics of the Garland. 

Mr. Eagles's introduction is given in his usual 
modest opinion of his superior talent. 

ffi&lorfe Asleep. 

I do not pretend to offer these translations as evidence of the 
genius of Vincent Bourne, but they serve to show the sort of things 
he loved to clothe in verse. However poor my work, there has 
been amusement, and chiefly in this, that it has given me a 
perception of the charm of that neatness, in which Cowper thought 
the usher not excelled by Ovid. I have been led on, likewise, when 
reading light and playful compositions, to think them into Latin. 
Many are the years since I was versed in verse — that is, " versibus 
Latine redditis." However I have failed, I shall at least deserve 



182 



CHLORIS ASLEEP. 



well of the reader, for renewing a pleasure he might not otherwise 
receive, by first taking from former pages of Maga, and offering it 
here, a little piece of exquisite beauty, which has quite haunted me 
from the day I first read it. I believe it was the only contribution 
from the author, whoever he was. It was published in Maga of 
September, 1836. 



©hloris Asleep. 

As Chloris lay asleeping 
Beneath a willow weeping, 
Whose leaves did vie in keeping 

Pert Phoebus from her face, 
Young Zephyr, — as I ween, 
Impatient for that scene, — 
Came trembling in between, 

And rustled in the place. 
But when the nymph he saw, 
O'ercome with secret awe, 
He whisp'ring did withdraw 

Behind the trees again, 
And there, the boughs among, 
With reverential song 
Of sighs and murmurs, long, 

Went uttering all his pain. 
But courting and manoeuvre 
And all could never move her 

From that sweet repose. 

Then burnt the jealous sun 
At seeing what was done, 
And quickly he begun 

To wrestle with the shade, 
And he watch'd every chance 
Like a hero of romance, 
With his beam for a lance, 

Till a passage so he made. 
And though a moment more, 
And the happy time was o'er, 
And the branches as before 

Veil'd her beauty from his sight, 
Yet did he swiftly reach her, 
And he kiss'd the lovely creature, 



<£f)Ioris JBormiens. 

Salice sub pensili 
Chloris dormiebat, 

Arbor umbra tonsili 
Foliorum nebat 

Tegmen, ut Sol impudens 
Os Virginis petebat. 

Zephyrus intrabat 

Voce susurrante, 
Et visa, Nympha, stabat 

Pede hsesitante — 
Et condit se post arborem, 

Ubi fuit ante. 

Ibi lamentatur 

Fundens lachrymabile 
Utmceroris satur 

Carmen quam amabile, 
Atque diu queritur 

Vulnus insanabile. 

Sed neque Ars nee ulla 
Vel carminum medulla, 

Spirantium amorem, 
Dulcem queant solvere 

Virginis soporem. 

Notis hisce rebus 

Vertit lumen oris 
Invidus hue Phoebus — 

Et valedicit Horis 
Cum umbra certaturus— 

Est oseulanda Chloris. 



CHLORIS ASLEEP. 



183 



And ran o'er every feature 

In a tremor of delight. 
But courting and manoeuvre 
And all could never move her 
From that sweet repose. 

Then a gay little brook, 
Running by, courage took, 
And he filled all the nook 

With his amorous voice, 
And in tones low and sweet 
He began her to greet, 
And in flowing at her feet 

Vow'd ever to rejoice. 
From afar in the glade, 
Echo sent him, he said, 
To arouse the sweet maid 

From that long long rest, 
For since Chloris slept on 
Her music was all gone. 
And lost was the tone 

She had aye lov'd best. 
But flattery and manoeuvre 
And all could never move her 

From that sweet repose. 

Then Blossom was in love, 
Looking down from above ; — 
Against it he strove, 

But was vanquish'd soon ; 
For the charm it increas'd, 
Till at last quite opprest, 
He sunk on her breast 

In a rapturous swoon. 
But courting and manoeuvre 
And all could never move her 

From that sweet repose. 

But as Chloris lay asleeping 
Beneath the willow weeping, 
Young Ctesiphon was creeping 

All gently to the place ; — 
For a spirit that day 
Had told him where she lay, 
And love led the way 

"With a stealthy pace. 



Arripit et gladium 

Alter ut Orlando, 
Pro hasta capit radium — 

Vigilior tentando — 
Comburit, rupit, iter ut 

Fervidior amando. 

Felix— at brevi spatio, 

Fronde arctiore, 
Umbra ruit — basio 

Sed Phoebus suo more 
Totam percurrit virginem 

Tremulante ore. . 

Nee dolus— nee amplexus, 
Nee osculorum nexus 

Spirantium amorem, 
Dulcem queant solvere 

Virginis soporem. 

Turn Rivulus jucundus, 

Implevit animose, 
Recessus errabundus 

Lend studiose 
Ad pedes repens Virginis 

Murmurante voce. 

Ait, Echo, se misisse 
Echo conquer en tern, 

" Non Musam super esse 
Quam sequerer canentem- 

Ni Chlorin excitaveris 
Amatam, dormientem." 

Non hsee incantamenta, 
Non ulla blandimenta, 

Spirantia amorem, 
Dulcem queant solvere 

Virginis soporem. 

Intuens at Flosculus, 

Perditus amore 
Desuper Arbuseulis 

Cadit, fusus rore 
Inque sinum Virginis 

Ruens suo more 



184 



CHLORIS ASLEEP. 



Then, Brook, give over feigning, 
Ad<3, Zephyr, leave complaining, 
And, Sun, no more be straining 

For a kiss from without ; 
And you, saucy Blossom, 
Come, leave my Chloris' bosom ; — 
But your leaves, ye trees,— dispose 'em 

In curtains round about. 
So may the gods approve her, 
Only Ctesiphon could move her 

From that sweet repose. 



Mille rapit basia 
In pectore et ore. 

Tentamen nee obsequium 
Non dulce hoc deliquiurn, 
Dulcem queant solvere 
Yirginis soporem. 

Ut sub salicto Chloris 

Jamdudum dormiebat, 
Ctesiphon instar fioris 

Puer nitidus repebat, 
Ductus quodam numine 

Nynipha quo jacebat 
Amor ipse forsitan 

Ilium adducebat. 



Mitte, Zephyre, ambire — 
Mitte, Bivule, sectari— 

Mitte, Phoebe, circumire 
Et niti et luctari. 

Non potis est extrinsecus 
Et longe osculari. 

Cur Floseule superbis— 
Abi — linque sinum, ora- 

En lectus est in herbis— 
Vos fronde, ne sit mora, 

Arbores connectite 
Aulaea arctiora. 



Di juvant— et Cupido— 
Hoc nuptiali nido 

Confessus est amorem 
Qui solus queat solvere 
Virginis soporem. 



Vale, Valesque, dear EAGLES ! ! Should this 
" Garland of Roses/' gathered from thy sweet poesy, 
be worthy to be held in remembrance by your relations 
and friends, I shall be amply repaid for any labour I 
have bestowed upon the Gathering. Its composition 
has enabled me to while away many hours, and revived 
many occurrences which have happened during a period 
of thirty years of unabated friendship and corres- 
pondence. Mr. Eagles' s virtues were, in the words of 
Lord Byron — 

" Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him, who died too soon." 

J. M. G. 



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